


A Bark And A Bruise

by bakerstreetashtray



Series: Dust and Paws [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, First Time, M/M, Teenlock, Trigger warning: abuse, sort of, teen!lock, were!john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 41,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakerstreetashtray/pseuds/bakerstreetashtray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teen!lock</p><p>Eighteen year old John Watson ran away from home on discovering his own terrible secret, and finds refuge in a disused chalet in a luxury beach resort. The Holmes Family take the chalet next door, and young son Sherlock makes an unexpected friend.</p><p>But the Holmes family have dark problems of their own, and John's little secret can't stay that way forever...</p><p> <br/><img/><br/>[baker-street-ashtray.tumblr.com]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Luxury

John Watson let his fingers trail over the smooth embroidered fabric of the tablecloth, the word slipping from his lips on the back of an incredulous breath.   
"Wow.."

 

The mahogany walls of the chalet were adorned with polished plaques and framed art, the heavy smell of the furniture polish hidden by the scent of something equally as luxurious that he couldn't quite place. John had left his shoes next door, and the thick carpet was soft beneath the rough, callused soles of his feet. Thick, leather sofas the colour of rich coffee were lining one side of the room, just begging to be sat upon, but he refrained - he'd only popped in for a look, and it was likely that the holidaying family would be here soon.

 

Lucky bastards.

 

Shaking his head at the impossible grandeur of such a squat building, John padded through to the tiny kitchenette, though of course there wasn't any food in the cupboards yet. The sight of the copper kettle resting on the stove made his chest ache slightly, so long it had been since his last cup of tea. He was surprised to find that he missed the drink more than he missed steady meals.

A car door slammed outside, and John tensed, whipping around wide-eyed to stare at the front door of the chalet. Shit, he thought, eyes roaming frantically until he spotted a back door, nestled beside a bookcase. Within a few seconds, he'd launched himself at it and was sent sprawling onto the raked sand bed, getting a mouthful of the stuff. Scrambling up, he was coughing and spluttering as he ran, heart thudding, back to his own chalet.

 

Well. His 'own'..  
Slamming the door behind him, John stood beside the window, risking a peek as the family left their car to enter the luxurious chalet next door. He was breathless, his eighteen year old body on edge as he watched the two boys unpack a couple of suitcases from the expensive car. One of them was about his age, the other older. As John watched, the father gave one of the boys a swat behind the ears for taking too long, and it was that moment the boy chose to turn around, an attempt to hide his irritated expression.

 

John raised his eyebrows, his mouth falling open just slightly with a muted pop. He didn't think he'd ever seen a boy as.. handsome.. as.. good-looking, and the thought sent a furious blush through his cheeks. The boy was tall, dark curls just falling into his eyes and wearing a pale blue shirt that looked a little bit too small for him. Catching himself, John cursed himself internally, wondering what the hell he was playing at. God knows, he didn't fancy boys. Men. Not that it mattered anyway, in his current situation. Nobody could be close. Not mum, not Harriet. Not now. 

 

Shaking his head, John called the boy a 'toff' under his breath and turned away from the window, a flicker of disappointment running through him as he was faced with his own 'luxurious chalet'. Cold and reeking of mould, the wooden walls stretched before him, the carpet sodden under his feet from the leaking ceiling. No furniture and no working electricity, John thanked his lucky stars that at least the plumbing was still functioning. It seemed years since he'd had a real, working bathroom - and not a midnight dash to the public loo - though it must only have been a couple of months. His pile of blankets sat in the corner, thankfully safe from the leaking ceiling and John's bed for all intents and purposes. Beside it, his rucksack, filled with the only things he'd chosen to take from home when he'd left; a few sets of clothes and pants, a thankfully unused first aid kit, a notebook and some pens and an old toothbrush. Heart sinking, John headed over to the corner and picked up his notebook and pen, turning to his last clean half-page. He never should have had a look at the other chalet. It only made things seem worse.

 

\--

 

Sherlock Holmes set the suitcase down in his parents' bedroom, rather unimpressed by the pomp and decor of the chalet. His eyes roamed uninterestedly around the mahogany walls and bland art as he headed back into the front room, arms folded loosely across his chest.  
"Well?" came the domineering voice of his father as he stepped inside, hands on his hips. He'd carried none of the cases in by himself, of course, and in fact Mycroft stepped in behind him with the last two, his own nasal whine answering the question.  
"I like it, father. They've certainly spared no expense."  
Sherlock's mother joined in too, taking a case from Mycroft's hands and leaning in to kiss her son on the cheek.  
"Lovely, Alf! Isn't it lovely, Sherlock?" She looked imploringly to him, and Sherlock pursed his lips, unwilling to join this sickening charade of happy families.  
"Is this my room?" He asked instead, leaning inside the back bedroom with a rather bored expression.  
"We're sharing." Came Mycroft's reply, followed by his footsteps and shove past Sherlock into the room. "And I'm top bunk."  
Sherlock's expression grew murderous, and he spun back indignantly to face his parents.  
"This is  _luxury_? Sharing a bedroom?"

"Please don't start, Sherlock." His mother pleaded, scurrying off with her case into the bedroom, artfully arranged hair bobbing precariously atop her head as she went.

  
"Do you have a problem with it?"  
His father's words were slow and deep, laden in the sickly sweet tone that he used to trick others into a false sense of security and understanding. Sherlock knew the tone well, and his mouth went dry at the question, much to his chagrin. He was still facing away, towards the bedroom, where he could see Mycroft's fingers freeze on the buckle of his suitcase at his father's words.   
"Look at me, Sherlock."  
After missing a beat, Sherlock turned on his heel, hating the fear that tightened in his chest. His father was rolling up his shirt sleeves, an action that Sherlock had always been sure that he did to remind him of the beatings. After a long moment, he raised his eyes to meet his father's, wondering if the man could see the revulsion written in his eyes.  
"We're going to have a nice week. A family week. Before Mycroft has to go back to work, and you start University. Your mother and I spent our hard earned money on this place. And we're going to enjoy ourselves. Aren't we, Sherlock?"  
Sherlock didn't reply, staring down his father as his heart raced in his chest. A few moments passed, and then the man took one step forward.  
"Yes." The word burst from Sherlock's lips. "Yes, we're going to enjoy ourselves."  
"And the bedrooms are just perfect. Aren't they, Sherlock?"   
His father rolled his fingers into an idle fist, his knuckles cracking as they did so. Sherlock swallowed, before speaking through gritted teeth.  
"Yes. Perfect, father."

 

\--

 

The dinner bell was a tinkling loudspeaker that resonated throughout the fancy resort, calling the guests to the banqueting hall. As far as John could gather, there would be a sit down meal, before some kind of night time entertainment, but then he'd only been here for two nights so far and had never stayed long enough in the hall to find out.

 

Just getting inside was hard enough.

 

Taking his usual stance in front of the cracked bathroom mirror, John shivered as he changed hurriedly into the one shirt he'd brought with him, noticing with a frown how easily it buttoned over his ribs. He tried to straighten his hair flat over his forehead before shrugging on the jacket he'd stolen the day before, still feeling guilty about doing so. It was brown with elbow patches, and John had discovered very quickly that if he didn't look the part, he would never be granted access to the posh hall. It had been a hungry first night.

 

Still, better than the last place he'd stayed, he reasoned. 

 

A few minutes later and he was waiting at the back door, the front having been boarded up for 'maintenance' - though John's chalet had not been visited by any maintenance men in the time that he'd been staying. Making sure nobody was looking, he darted out onto the path and cleared his throat as he walked along the gravel towards the hall, joining the sparse crowd beginning to meander in that direction. After a few minutes, he managed to tag along with a young family, the smartly dressed parents paying too much attention keeping their young children's clothes immaculate to notice John walking behind them. 

 

\--

 

As the Holmes family entered the banqueting hall, Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the extravagant decor. Silver service and wine glasses at every table, he wondered just how much his father had paid for this week as he fasted the buttons of his suit jacket.   
"Your hair is in utter _disarray_." Mycroft leaned over to hiss as they were being seated at a table, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother, shooting back a croon of "At least my suit fits."  
It was true, his brother had been trying to lose weight. And quite successfully, actually, Sherlock had noticed - not that he wished to inform Mycroft of his achievement. One look from their father silenced them both, and Sherlock looked away, fingers twining together in his lap.

 

Gazing around idly for some sort of distraction, Sherlock's eyes settled on the young family just entering the hall. As the matron began to seat them, he noticed a young boy - maybe about his age - slip in unnoticed, heading straight for the salad bar. Of course, everything would be served to Sherlock's family a la carte, fresh from the kitchens and on the arm of a waitress. Aside from the side salad. Narrowing his eyes just slightly, Sherlock was perplexed as he watched the boy fill up a plate hurriedly, wearing a brown jacket a little too long in the sleeves. Stuffing bread rolls deep into his pockets, the boy glanced around, freezing like a deer caught in the headlights as his gaze fell on Sherlock, similarly staring right at him.

 

  
_What on Earth are you doing?_  
Sherlock cocked one eyebrow, as if asking the question, lifting his hands to rest on the table and tapping his fingers.  
 _Ill-fitting jacket, very clearly stealing food. Is he not a guest here? Homeless, perhaps. Or a boy from a local village._

 

"Stop tapping."   
Sherlock's father's irritated voice cut through the calm like a knife, and Sherlock's concentration was shattered almost immediately. He jumped just slightly, and removed his fingers from the table, nodding apologetically at his father. Turning his attention back to the boy, Sherlock was rather surprised to see no sign of him, and began to crane his neck to see over the crowds.

"Sherlock." His mother chided, and he was forced to settle. Finally, he located the boy again - now somehow inexplicably standing at the window - on the other side of the glass. His jacket pockets were still evidently bulging with bread rolls, and he held the plate stocked high with pasta and salad in his hands, clearly triumphant. He must have snuck past the matron and doormen, Sherlock thought to himself, raising his eyebrows, quietly impressed. The boy met his eyes and smiled just slightly, popping a piece of pasta into his mouth.   
At that moment, a waitress chose to lean in front of Sherlock, setting down his starter - a vegetable tureen. How detestable, he thought, agitatedly waiting for the server to move out of his way.

 

Of course, the boy was gone - only the grass was visible, sparse where it began to be overwhelmed by the sand of the beach, and in the distance, the calm sea. The sun was beginning to set, and Sherlock pursed his lips, quite sure that the sight had been more interesting a few minutes before.

 

_Who are you?_

 

\--

 


	2. Sunset

 

After he'd eaten, John laid on the floor of his chalet, his stomach full to bursting. He had to admit that he'd probably overdone it a bit tonight, but then he had been starving. With no way to get lunch or breakfast, he was relying on the bread rolls from dinner to get him through the next day, but then that pasta had been brilliant. He'd meant to save some for later.. 

The wooden walls of the chalet were turning a sandy beige in the glow of the setting sun, the light streaming through his windows as he lay on the damp carpet. John shivered, having hung up the jacket already for tomorrow, and decided that he'd like to be out in that warmth. The only problem was being spotted. Even the beach was 'private'. But with John's special 'talent', he hadn't been caught the last two nights that he'd been out there.

 

He pushed himself to his hands and knees, groaning just slightly at how sick he felt, his dinner threatening to re-emerge. Still, he forced himself to concentrate.

 

  
_It's deserted out there. No one will see you. No one will care if they do. You're basically in disguise._

_This has its perks, I suppose._

To summon the change, John had to concentrate hard, focus on memories that brought strong emotional connections. He'd been thinking about the same thing each time.

 

_"John, you're only seventeen! What about medical school?"_

_His mum's voice was shrill, desperate to reason with him. Harriet listened at the top of the stairs, innocent eyes staring down at him from between the rungs of the bannister._   
_"I'm sorry, mum. I just have to."_   
_"You get accepted into medical school, and then you 'just have to' go travelling? You couldn't have deferred placement for a year?"_   
_She still wore her apron from work, and John felt another pang that he wouldn't be around to help pay the bills with his part time wages._   
_"I'm not.. doing this to be difficult, mum-" John's voice was shaking, his resolve threatening to crack. But he had to leave. He had to. He was a freak. Seventeen years old, and a bloody freak. He couldn't stay around them; couldn't bring this down on their heads._

_His future, up in flames._   
_"Really? I just want an explanation, John! I just need-"_   
_"I'm sorry."_   
_John tried his best to smooth the anguish from his features, his words cold as they fell from his lips. He slammed the door behind him, heaving his bag higher on his shoulder. One glance back was all he afforded himself. Harriet had run to stand at her bedroom window, her eyes wet and mouth pursed into a trembling pout as she cried. It almost broke him._

 

\--

 

After dinner, Sherlock had announced that he was going for a walk, for once met by no protests from his family. Only Mycroft rolled his eyes at him as the dessert plates were carried away; his mother reminding him to be back for the interpretive dance show at 8pm.

Making his way out of the banqueting hall, he shrugged off his suit jacket, hanging it over one arm and turning back his sleeves. The sun shone on his arms as he reached the top of the hill, the entire beach spread before him. It was completely empty - obviously none of 'his' people appreciated the natural beauty of a sunset. In fact, Sherlock would be loathe to admit that he himself appreciated it, but one could not argue with the view before him.

 

An orange sun danced upon grey waves, the light bouncing off the water and a gentle breeze making the hairs on Sherlock's arms stand up as he made his way down the sands to the shoreline. He took off his shoes and socks, leaving them further back. Standing at the edge of the water, waves breaking over his feet, Sherlock sighed rather peacefully, wondering why he'd been forced on this damned holiday in the first place.

Rather suddenly, he realised he was not alone. Sensing movement to his left, Sherlock looked over to see a Golden Retriever, the dog too padding along the shoreline. His fur was long, the ends matted with sand and water, tongue lolling from his mouth as he walked. 

Sherlock turned where he stood, scanning the beach for an owner, but could see none. At his movement, the dog's head snapped up to look at him, his tongue disappearing back into his mouth. Both frozen, man and dog held a gaze for a few moments, before the Retriever began to take a few steps backwards, trotting off rather quickly back down the beach.

"Wait!"  
Sherlock called, without really knowing why. He wasn't a dog lover per se, and considered himself indifferent to most animals. Still, the dog turned at his command, looking at him with large brown eyes that he could swear appeared confused. Sherlock patted his knees, bending down where he was stood to try and coax the dog closer.  
"Hello, boy.." He said rather awkwardly, not used to conversing with pets. "How.. Oh, you're a good dog, aren't you?"  
As soon as the Retriever came close enough, Sherlock ran his hand over the dog's head, and then through his golden coat.   
"There.. That isn't so bad, is it?" He asked, and as if in reply, the dog took a few steps over and sat itself down on the sand, looking at him pointedly.  Sherlock gave a rather pursed smile and walked to sit next to it, fingers tentatively finding golden fur again. He wondered idly why he'd never had a pet as a child. Perhaps it would have helped him socially. Not that Sherlock cared, particularly.

 

The sand warm on his behind, Sherlock kept his eyes on the breaking waves as he stroked his fingers along the dog's back, he too - at least, he assumed it was a he - looking out at the sea. He tried not to think about how peculiar this sudden situation was, or about if the blasted thing might have fleas. Or about the fact that, despite seeing a crowd of young people his own age at dinner, he was preferring to sit and speak with a dog.  
"I don't need them anyway." He muttered under his breath, and the dog tilted its head at him, almost questioningly. Sherlock continued to stroke, a smile quirking his lips for a split second at the dog's reaction. "Not friends. Not my family. Especially not my family."

He pursed his lips as he thought of his father, his stroking stalling until the dog turned and nudged his hand to continue.   
"You're very demanding." He noted in mock irritation, raising an eyebrow at the creature before sighing with a slight smile.

"Alone is what I have." He murmured, eyes on the setting sun. "Alone protects me."

 

The dog gave a huff that was almost like a sneeze, and Sherlock could have sworn that the thing was agreeing with him. Turning to look the dog in the face, he sensed a forlorn sadness about him that mirrored Sherlock's own loneliness. That is, until the dog looked at him in return, one ear quirking in interest, and Sherlock cursed himself for analysing an  _animal._

"You're quite something."   
He admitted reluctantly, a laugh bubbling from his lips as the dog tilted his head almost proudly. It was mad; he was almost humanlike, and Sherlock had never seen anything like it. Were all dogs like this? Somehow, he didn't think so. 

 

"What can I call you.." He asked again, his question somewhat rhetorical as he thought about it. The dog seemed to have no opinion, or at least he made no move to suggest anything. "What about Einstein? You are abnormally clever for a canine."

The dog huffed, standing up and shaking off his fur, spraying Sherlock with sand and water. He shrieked, shielding his face with his arm and laughed again, quite unlike himself.  
"Alright - Not Einstein. Newton, perhaps?"  
The dog shook his fur again and Sherlock rolled himself away, kicking up sand as he laughed and squeezed his eyes shut.  
"Fine! I'll just call you  _dog_. Is that satisfactory?"

  
The Retriever bounded over and licked him promptly on the cheek, at which Sherlock grimaced and tried to rub off.

  
" _Dog_."

"Sherlock!"  
The booming voice carried down to the sands, and Sherlock turned to see his father's silhouette standing atop the hill. In the short time that he'd been with Dog, the sun had well and truly set, and it was dusk. 

"I have to go." Sherlock stood, leaning over to give the dog one last rub behind the ears. "I'm going to come back though. Tomorrow. Don't get yourself in trouble. Do you understand?"

Dog tilted his head and Sherlock rolled his eyes, corner of his mouth quirking as he turned reluctantly to sprint back up the sands.

 

 

\--

 

When John got back to his chalet - on four legs - he padded into the corner to change back, hurriedly dragging on his shorts when he reappeared as a naked eighteen year old boy, all traces of golden fur banished to his other form.

 

The smile on his face felt strange - almost out of place. It had been so long since it had been there, and now twice in one day. Once at dinner, proving his sneaky prowess with the salad cart, and now after a conversation on the beach. One-sided, of course, but a conversation no less. And he liked him. He really  liked John. Well.. One of his forms, at least.

 

Sherlock.

The name ran through his mind over and over as John lay in his pile of blankets, going over what he knew about the other lad. Posh family; he'd seen them at dinner. Didn't like his dad - he'd seen that much from the way he'd looked at the figure on the hill. Didn't have many friends, if what he'd been speaking to John about was true. Smart. And nice hands. Gentle, long-fingered hands that knew how to sift through fur in just the right way.

John blushed at that last thought, not entirely sure he ought to be thinking like that.

 

_Tomorrow, then._

 

\--

 

The rest of Sherlock's night had passed uninterestedly, and he'd longed to get back to his canine friend on the beach. But then, after his father had forced him back to the chalet to change out of his sandy clothes, Sherlock had looked out over the sands and realised that Dog had gone, anyway. He wondered idly where he lived. Did he have an owner? 

 

The interpretive dance group were dull, and his father's drinking that swiftly followed was even more dull. Sherlock went to bed at 11pm sharp, Mycroft's snores drifting down from the top bunk as his father crashed around in the living room, and his mother sobbed. A common evening in the - albeit temporary - Holmes residence, then. Sherlock read his book until he couldn't keep his eyes open for a moment longer, and awoke the next morning with the pages crinkled beneath his cheek, sunlight streaming through the Venetian blinds.

 

Almost immediately he was jumping out of bed, pulling on a pair of long shorts and a loose shirt, slipping on his sandals before he headed out of his bedroom. He paused on the way to the door, swallowing as the sight of last night's debris hit him. One of the leather sofas was sporting an almighty tear, and there was a smashed bottle of wine oozing red all over the elaborate tablecloth. Broken glass littered the floor, and Sherlock's mother slept on the sofa, still wearing her dress from the night before.

A lump in his throat, Sherlock grabbed a throw blanket, laying it carefully over the sleeping woman before continuing more quietly out of the back door and onto the beach.

 

\--

 

John had been up for hours, pacing back and forth in his chalet. He was toying with the idea of appearing to Sherlock in his normal form; as a human. After all, the other boy had seen him through the window of the banqueting hall last night. They weren't friends, but they were peers, at least. 

"I don't want to be his friend as a dog. Not just as a dog." He whined quietly to himself, his hands in his hair.

John's second form hadn't always been a dog. He remembered his seventeenth birthday rather vividly, the bubbling warmth tearing at his skin as he was frozen in horror, morphing from lizard to bird to canine to rat. Each transformation was gut-wrenching and horrifying,  unexplainable and terrifying. Throughout the night, John's form had been liquid, rearranging itself and his body to form over a hundred different animals. But it stuck at the Retriever. He wasn't sure why. He hadn't been able to change into anything else since.

 

The morning after his horrific night, he was up and gone within a matter of hours. He wasn't sure what was going on, but only that he was a freak. That if anyone found out, he'd be torn from his family; all of them tested for the same horrific gene. He couldn't bring that on his mum, or on Harry. So he'd left, and thus was the pain in his heart.

The first month had been hell; sleeping in the street as his canine form for safety and scrounging scraps from restaurant back doors and kind strangers. His lowest point had been finding himself in a dog pound, collared and in a bloody cage. Unwilling to change back in such humiliating circumstances, John had been relieved to be 'adopted', though of course he ran away at the first possible chance. Now in Cornwall, he'd managed to find the chalet, and here he would stay for as long as he possibly could.

 

Sherlock was the first 'friend' he'd met.   
 _And I don't know if he'll like me without four legs._

 

_What should I do?_

_I'm going to do it. I'm doing it. I'm going to do it._

\--

 

"I knew you'd be here."  
Sherlock announced quietly, setting himself down beside Dog on the sand and slinging an arm around the Retriever. He thought he felt the dog stiffen slightly, before turning and huffing at him. If Sherlock didn't know any better, he'd say the animal was somehow disappointed.

"Don't tell me," He sighed, pursing his lips and looking out at the water, "You had a bad morning too."

Dog yawned, tilting his head to look over at Sherlock almost inquisitively.

"My father." Sherlock said by way of explanation, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he spoke the words through gritted teeth. To his surprise, Dog leaned over, his wet muzzle snuffling at Sherlock's neck in some sort of appropriation of comfort. Sherlock shrieked and leaned away, laughing and already feeling better. 

 

As the laughter died on his lips after a few moments, he reached over to resume the same rhythmic stroking of the night before.  
"What could have possibly happened to you? Didn't get enough.. walkies?"

 

Dog looked over at him rather sharply, and Sherlock paused in his strokes.  
"I'm.. sorry." He offered bemusedly, and the dog huffed, nodding his shaggy head for Sherlock to continue.

"My father.. isn't the kindest of men." He began, the words difficult on his lips. "My mother says that it's his work. That he gets easily riled, but that seems rather ridiculous to me. Especially when he uses his fists on her even on this supposed _holiday_."

Dog whimpered just slightly, his eyes fixing on Sherlock in a look oddly close to sympathy. Sherlock gave a rather sad smile, rubbing the Retriever behind the ears.   
"My brother and I - I have a brother - we don't particularly get on. And my father and I, even less."

 

He paused to lift the edge of his loose shirt, exposing a yellowed, flowering bruise. It was the product of an argument a few weeks earlier, when Sherlock had asked his father for a new chemistry set. It had been for University, and not the most outrageous of Sherlock's demands by far.. but his father had been in a terrible mood. And drinking whiskey.

Dog shrank away from him just slightly, and Sherlock turned to look at him, raising his eyebrows at the animal's raised hackles.  
"What.."

Next, the dog leaned down, wet nose nudging at Sherlock's shirt, as if nuzzling his bruise. Sherlock understood, and stroked him behind the ears once more. "I know. But soon I'll be at University. It shan't matter."

Dog barked once, very quietly, and the sound was disgruntled. Sherlock surprised himself by laughing once, hooking his arm around the animal's neck and pulling him close for just a moment. His fur smelled like bonfires and old wood, mixed with something else. If it weren't so absurd, he would have said it was aftershave.  
"I'm perfectly alright, Dog."

 

\--

 


	3. Dinner

The next three days passed in a blur of John and Sherlock; or Sherlock and Dog.  
  
They met up whenever they could, John spending the majority of his day on the beach - aside from cleaning up to sneak into mealtimes. He made sure to go extremely early so as not to run into Sherlock in his normal form, as if just seeing his 'friend' would alert him to John's true identity. After scarfing down salad in his chalet, he'd change on a full stomach and pad out to the beach, ready to await Sherlock's visits.

 

His parents often kept him busy for long periods during the day; trips to nearby landmarks and museum visits were among the activities and John always got a detailed, scathing report of just how boring they all were. He didn't mind. He loved to hear Sherlock speak, even if he couldn't talk back in return. Just listening.. listening was good.

 

John made sure to keep an eye out for any fresh bruises now that he was aware of Sherlock's dad's little.. hobby. Just the thought was sickening to his stomach, and it raised his hackles whenever Sherlock spoke about it, though that wasn't often. As far as John could gather, there hadn't been an incident since that first day.

 

Every time they met, John would torture himself with the idea of showing up as John Watson - an unremarkable eighteen year old boy, rather than a Golden Retriever with a penchant for listening to teenage boys talk about their lives. Each time, he would relent and appear on four legs. One evening, Sherlock even bought a tennis ball. It took John a while to agree to fetch it for him when he threw it; demeaning as it was. But then, the delight on Sherlock's face was repayment enough, and he supposed he could use the exercise.

 

A change in events occurred on the fourth day.

 

Sherlock and John - golden, canine John - had been at the beach for most of the afternoon, Sherlock laying with his head resting on John's furry underbelly. Sherlock had been speaking about everything from his hopes for University to a crime he'd solved when he was just eight years old, and John had realised that his friend had quite a talent for observation. He had resolved to be more careful with his transformations, though ironically had been caught out that very evening.

 

It started with his father's call.   
"Oh - it's dinner." Sherlock sat up, rubbing between John's ears as he too leapt up, panicked. How had he possibly not noticed the time? He'd never be able to get to the banqueting hall before Sherlock's family..  
As soon as his friend had jogged back to his own chalet, John was running full pelt for his own, transforming in a blur of pain and naked flesh on the floor. He dressed hurriedly in his shirt and brown jacket, barely leaving time to flatten his hair before he was dashing for the hall, still forcing his shoes on as he ran down the path.

 

\--

 

Sherlock and Mycroft were bickering as they lined up outside the banqueting hall for dinner, or at least Mycroft was trying to engage him in some kind of political debate. A little more relaxed as of late, Sherlock hadn't allowed himself to be baited and merely expressed his displeasure with a sarcastic insult, earning himself a disapproving tut from mother. Father luckily hadn't heard.

 

As they waited, the matron seating each family painfully slowly, Sherlock suddenly noticed the boy that he'd seen a few days ago - evidently back to his old tricks. Sherlock had assumed he had moved on, but then here he was again. Raising his eyebrows, he watched as the boy straightened his jacket and attempted to walk in after a family of five - and was swiftly stopped by the doormen asking to see his chalet key and number.

 

Sherlock wanted to see what happened next, but at that very moment his family were escorted inside and promptly seated at a table. Craning his neck, he felt a slight guilt as the boy was turned away, his expression crumpling into one of upset and desperation.  
"Sherlock, are you having the duck?"  
Mother asked, but Sherlock wasn't listening.   
"I'll be back in a moment-"  
He uttered, tossing down his napkin and hurrying over to the salad cart, filling his pockets with bread rolls and a plate with heaped piles of pasta and salad.  
"Sherlock!"  
His mother's rather alarmed cry could be heard from across the room as she watched him, but Sherlock was already making his way from the hall, staring down the doormen as if daring them to stop him.

 

\--

 

John was halfway back up the path, his stomach rumbling pathetically and shoulders slumped in defeat. He was panicking internally about what the immediate future held for him - now that the doormen had caught him once, they weren't likely to let him get past again. It wasn't as if he could even change clothes. He'd have to move on, find somewhere new.. Some means to eat. To live.

 

And leave Sherlock.

 

"Wait!"  
The voice was achingly familiar and sent a jolt of something straight through to John's stomach. Turning around, his expression bemused, he was faced with his friend, his jacket pockets comically bulging with bread and a loaded salad plate in his hands.

"Sherlock?" John rasped disbelievingly, and Sherlock stopped, his brows pulling together slightly.

"How do you know my name?"

John couldn't answer, his mouth opening and  closing aimlessly a few times before he dropped his gaze to the plate.  
"Is that.. for me?" He asked, his attempt at nonchalance failing pathetically as his words shook.

"I've seen you stealing things." Sherlock remarked, pressing the plate into John's open hands. "I must say, you're very good. Well, aside from tonight, of course."

John gave one weak chuckle, before shaking his head. His mouth was watering, and he couldn't quite believe what was happening. Sherlock, speaking to him. Without fur or four legs.

"Not my best night." He replied quietly, eyes on the bread in the boy's pockets. "I was.. late."

A silence fell between them and John shifted the plate in his hands, looking up at Sherlock quizzically.

"Why are you doing this?"

Sherlock smiled, and it was a smile that John knew to be genuine, beginning in the middle of his pursed lips and stretching outwards as he met John's gaze.  
"I have a.. friend. He helps me, and he never asks anything in return. Just-" He shrugged nonchalantly, "-lets me speak to him about things. It's been eye-opening. I rather decided to be selfless in myself."

John couldn't help but grin in return, pursing his lips just slightly.  
"And?"

"And it's been very enlightening. Yes. I think I'd definitely do it again."

"John Watson. Nice to meet you."  
John held out a hand, shifting his plate to  one arm, and Sherlock shook his hand, his fingers the same deft length that John knew so well already.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"I want to thank you somehow. Maybe.. maybe we could meet up after you finish dinner?" John swallowed, taking back his hand and shifting slightly from one foot to the other. "Maybe.. on the beach? See the sunset..?"

Sherlock laughed, a chuckle that seemed to speak of an irony that he thought John unaware of.  
"I wish I could. That's when I'll be seeing my.. my friend."

John cringed internally, feeling rather like a fraud.  
"Just for half an hour? Or.. maybe you can introduce us?"

Sherlock seemed to consider for a few moments, his eyes narrowing just slightly before he nodded, removing the bread from his pockets and placing them on John's plate.  
"Alright. Just for a little while. I'll see you later. John?"

"John."

"Good. Alright."  
Sherlock leaned over to swipe a piece of pasta from John's plate and pop it into his mouth before turning on his heel, and heading back down to the banqueting hall.

John returned to his chalet with a large grin on his face - a grin that faded when he considered the enormity of what he'd just proposed.


	4. Meeting

The next hour passed more quickly than John would have liked. He sat in his pile of blankets, forcing himself to eat the pasta and salad though he was no longer hungry, the nerves turning his stomach again and again.  
  
 _What have I done? Or more importantly, what am I going to do?_  
  
He'd realised upon walking back that he was probably reliant on this going well. After all, he couldn't get into the hall again by himself, so without Sherlock he wouldn't be able to eat. His days here were already numbered - but then, John didn't think he'd really want to stay if it all went badly.  
  
Adding his plate to the mounting stack, John left the bread rolls for the morning and walked to the mirror, frowning as he caught sight of himself in the cracked glass.  _There's nothing special about me. As a human, I'm pretty dull looking._  
  
Still, John had a shower - cold, of course - and redressed in his shirt and jacket, trying his wet body and hair with one of his blankets. By the time he was dressed and ready, it was time to go outside, and he thought he might pass out from the jittery nerves that were consuming him. He stood in front of his window, fingers pressed lightly to the mildewed ledge as he watched the three members of Sherlock's family return, his brother linking arms with his mother as they walked. Sherlock must already be at the beach.

 

With a deep breath, John swallowed, nodded and paced out of the back door.

 

\--

 

Sherlock stood in the glow of the setting sun, the light warming his face as he waited. He wasn't sure who he was waiting for just quite yet, as he'd rather expected at least one of them to be here already. He could understand being stood up by John Watson, but by Dog? It was inconceivable.

 

Perhaps he was hurt, or in trouble.

 

The thought was alarming, and Sherlock let his arms fall to his sides, immediately scanning the shorelines for any sign of his beloved friend. Instead, he was faced with the boy, John Watson, walking tentatively towards him. Sherlock smiled, though it was rather forced in his worry.  
"Hello."  
"Hi."   John seemed uncomfortable, his fingers curling and uncurling by his sides. He had wet hair, and Sherlock was suddenly wondering if the boy had made an effort for this meeting. Perhaps he thought it a date. Oh, heavens no. 

"He's not here." Sherlock informed John morosely, walking back a few steps to sit on a sand bank.  
"Oh?"  
"My friend. He does exist, if that's what you're thinking. I didn't simply  _invent_ -"  
"That's not what I'm thinking at all." The boy replied simply, before hesitantly sitting down beside him. Sherlock worried if he was being too harsh; after all, he had been kind to John Watson only an hour ago.  _He must be wondering what he's done wrong._  


 

"I'm sorry." Sherlock relented in a quite voice.  
"Why?"  
"I'm not being very pleasant. I'm worried about him."  
John seemed to shift rather uncomfortably, and Sherlock cursed himself for sharing his thoughts so openly.  
"I'm sure he's fine." The boy offered, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.  _Of course he isn't fine. He's an animal. He could have gotten himself in any number of terrible situations. He could be in some godforsaken dog pound._  


  
"How are your family?" John asked, seemingly trying to change the subject. "They seem nice." He added quickly, bringing his arms up to rest over his knees. Sherlock looked away from the horizon at his question, narrowing his eyes just slightly.

"You know nothing about me, and you want to know about my family?"

"Oh - no, sorry, I-"

"They're fine. I'm fine. We're all fine, fine, fine."

"And your dad?"  
The words seemed to have fallen quite naturally from John's lips, but Sherlock looked over, tight-lipped and suspicious.

"What do you care about my father?"

"Sorry. No, sorry."   
John became quiet, his eyes fixed firmly on the sea as they sat, the breaking of the gentle waves the only sound. Sherlock risked a glance at the other boy, the dry parts of his hair golden in the sunlight. The sight only sent another pang of worry through him, and Sherlock let himself fall back into the sand with a groan, wondering why his friend was so late.

 

"I have to.." John stood up, brushing sand from himself and quite clearly trying to think of an excuse. "Go. I have to go."

"You just got here." Sherlock remarked disinterestedly, closing his eyes as he lay back on the sand. 

"Yeah, I'll.. I might come back later. Thank you. For the food."

Sherlock nodded mutely, feeling a slight flicker of disappointment. He'd quite clearly ruined whatever potential was here  with his snide remarks and his worrying, and he sighed as John Watson's footsteps trudged off through the sand. 

 

Sherlock let his fingers rake back and forth through the grains, the sun on his face and sand managing to find its way up and under his shirt. He'd been laying there for ten minutes, or perhaps fifteen, when he heard the familiar padding footsteps and panting breaths.

"Dog?"  
He was sitting up bolt straight in a second, a grin stretching over his face as he held his arms out, the Retriever running at him and licking his face, much to Sherlock's mock dismay. 

 

"You're late." He breathed, letting his hands fall to stroke through the fur. "I had someone to introduce you to. But he's left now, very rude."

Dog sat down beside him, crossing his paws and giving Sherlock a pointed look that he didn't quite understand.

"What? I wasn't rude. I was very nice. I'm always very nice."

Dog huffed once, and it was nearly a snort. Sherlock laughed and relented, rolling his eyes.

"Alright. Perhaps I wasn't as nice as I could have been. But I was worried about you! Extremely inconsiderate of you to be so late. Couldn't you have.. drawn a note in the sand?"

The Retriever moved forwards to butt him in the side with his nose, a clear reprimand for Sherlock's mocking tone.   
Sherlock smiled and rubbed Dog behind the ears, the smile fading just slightly as he glanced back the way John Watson had gone.

"It's quite alright.. I don't think he liked me, anyway. Not particularly."

Dog whined, a thin sound slipping from him as he looked over at Sherlock, eyes wide and brown and trying to tell him something.

 

"You do realise that you're a dog, don't you?" He asked, hint of a wry smile on his lips. Dog huffed again,  almost like a sneeze as he turned his attention back to the sea.

 

A comfortable silence fell between them, and Sherlock moved to lean on his animal friend, Dog laying down to let him use his stomach fur as a pillow. Minutes passed, both of them seemingly lost in thought as the sun began to disappear behind the grey sea.

 

\--

 

"Father's getting worse again." Sherlock whispered after a few minutes, and John-the-dog looked down at him sharply, his ears swinging to bat him in the face. 

"It happens in.. phases, I like to think." He continued, fingers drawing idly in John's fur as he lay. "The first few days are alright. The threat is always there, but it doesn't get bad until he begins to drink. A few days ago, it was my mother that faced the brunt of his anger."

 

John-the-dog whimpered just slightly, the only reaction he could muster.

_Why couldn't you have told me this when I was  human? So I could talk to you in return? I was there, asking you about your father and nothing! You didn't tell me a thing._

  
"He began breakfast this morning with a stiff whiskey." Sherlock informed John-the-dog, meeting his eyes with a stern gaze that had the beginnings of fear circling within it. "Lunch was brandy.. And he's still in the banqueting hall now, on the gin I think."

John-the-dog growled once in reaction, a low sound that caught in his chest and made Sherlock look up in surprise, before leaning back down onto him and looping an arm around his neck.

"It's alright, Dog."  
John-the-dog tilted his head to lick Sherlock's cheek, the boy squirming and laughing under his worried gaze.   
"I just have to stay out of his way tonight. It might be mother again. Or Mycroft."

_That's not good enough,_  John wanted to say - to scream.  _It shouldn't be any of you. None of you should be suffering. Oh, God, why - why am I a dog? Why couldn't you talk to me?_  


 

They laid that way for another two hours or so, Sherlock changing the subject to discuss his day at the Eden Project and how minimally interesting he'd found it - which in John's experience, was more interesting than he usually found anything else. At one point, Sherlock had half-heartedly thrown a tennis ball, to which John-the-dog had given him a pointed look.

_I'm not fetching that. I'm knackered._

They were sitting near enough in the dark now, and Sherlock had laughed at John-the-dog's expression, ruffling the fur between his ears again and pulling him back into the sand. 

 

And then a booming, slurring voice had cut through the darkness.

"Sher- Sherrrrlock!"

"Oh, hell." Sherlock had muttered, swallowing. John-the-dog could see the swaying silhouette  on the hill and immediately he was growling, his hackles raised. One look at his friend told him that Sherlock was frightened, actually, truly frightened, and John-the-dog was meeting his gaze, pleading with him not to go.

"I have to. It'll only be worse later if I stay." He whispered, and John-the-dog whined, a pitiful sound that began in the pit of his chest.

 

Sherlock began to walk, though every step he took was intercepted by John, his golden form leaping in front of the other boy to try and stop him from making his way up the hill.

  
"No - Dog.. - Stop it-"

At his wits end, John-the-dog barked just once, a sound that was loud, keening and desperate.  
 _Don't go up there. Please._

 

"I have to." Sherlock bent down, reasoning with him quietly before looping his arms around John-the-dog's neck again. A gentle pressure, and then he was gone, jogging over the hill and John-the-dog was whining, his fur flat to his skin as he looked up at the night sky.

 

 

\--


	5. Snarl

Sherlock's heart was pounding unevenly in his chest as he took a few steps inside the chalet, the front door blowing open in the breeze. It was dark inside, and he could see his father's dark form sitting on the sofa, a plume of smoke rising from the cigarette between his fingers.  
"Where are mother and Mycroft?" Sherlock asked with an air of false confidence, somehow managing to keep his voice smooth. He didn't particularly need to ask; he'd assumed that they had both stayed at the after dinner entertainment. Perhaps mother had protested quietly when father had made clear his intentions, standing and swaying as he demanded to know why Sherlock wasn't with them for the fourth time. But then, neither his mother or brother would protest too much. His father's attentions could so easily turn to the defending hero.

 

"Where have you been, Sherlock?" His father rasped gruffly, the telltale slur of the edges of his words sending a sharp warning pang through Sherlock's chest.  
"On the b-"  
"On the beach." His father finished for him, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table forcefully, and leaning back onto the sofa. "Every night, on the beach. Tell me boy, is the beach more interesting than your own family?"

"You're being ridiculous, father." Sherlock snapped, turning on his heel ready to leave the chalet.

"Don't you take one - single - step out of that door, you insolent child."  
His father was on his feet, heavy footsteps making their way towards Sherlock as the slurred insult fell from his lips. Sherlock continued  to face the door, hands curling into frightened fists at his sides and his back stiffening. He spoke to the floor.  
"I'm eighteen."

 

"Oh. _Oh_ , you're eighteen?"  
His father's voice was mocking, dripping with a trembling anger for which Sherlock was clueless to the provocation. His heavy footsteps continued to make their way towards him, padding ominously on the thick carpeting.  
"Do you think being  _eighteen_  gives you a right to disrespect your father, boy?"

  
Sherlock didn't answer, his heart fluttering in his chest like a hummingbird. He thought about Dog, probably still laying in the sands, and how his heart ached to rejoin him. He could see the sea from where he was standing, the front door still ajar just slightly.

" _ANSWER ME_." Came the roar from behind him, and Sherlock jumped, turning back to face his father with shameful terror in his eyes. No answer would be the right one. No answer would allow him to escape.

 

"No, father." He said eventually, the words bitter as they fell from his lips, eyes on the carpet.

 

"No? No?! So this is - this is blind ignorance, then."  
Sherlock could barely understand his father's words, slurring together as he swayed before his son, face contorted in terrible rage.

"No.. Yes- I.. I don't know-"

The first blow came before Sherlock was expecting it, his father's curled fist whipping out to catch him in the stomach, where nobody would see. Sherlock gasped, the air leaving his lungs and the pain doubling him over.

 

"Yes, No, I don't know!" His father mocked, the alcohol on his breath making Sherlock dizzy as he clutched his stomach, he now too swaying on the spot. The second hit was harsher, and his father seemed to forget his careful practice; the hand caught Sherlock across the cheek, and he accidentally bit down on his lip, blood welling in his mouth.

"I don't want to do this!" His father roared, taking Sherlock's face in his fingers and spitting as he yelled. "I have to teach you! You boys and your mother. Insolent, ungrateful-"

Sherlock's head was spinning, his eyes barely able to focus on his father's face before him, although after a few seconds delay, he heard what had made him stop speaking. The growling was loud, coming from behind where they were standing, interspersed with snarls and the snap of teeth. 

 

_Dog._

_\--_

John's fur was standing nearly on end, his hackles raised and teeth bared as he snarled and snapped at the man that held Sherlock's chin in a vice grip. He turned slowly, face contorted in rage slowly altering to that of surprise as he seemed to wonder how exactly a Golden Retriever had burst into their chalet.

 

As John watched, the man shoved his son with little regard for his safety, a pang running through his chest as Sherlock crashed back into the wall, before sliding down to rest on his knees. There was blood on his lips, and John-the-dog was growling, raging at the man standing before him. The man with the audacity to call himself a father.

 

"Get out!" The man yelled, waving his arms at John-the-dog, "Get away with you.  _Mutt_ , get out!"

 

John-the-dog only edged closer, snarling and meeting the man's gaze, staring him down and thinking just how much he'd like to sink his teeth into his skin. At long last, he pounced and Sherlock's father shrieked, leaping to the left and landing sprawled on the sofa. Within seconds he had clambered up, John on his tail as he ran through the chalet and out into the night, John-the-dog's paws faster on the sand than his own clumsy, expensively-heeled shoes.

 

After chasing him for a few metres back down the path to the banqueting hall, John caught himself and forced his instincts and anger back down, slowing to a panting walk. 

  
_Sherlock needs me more than that idiot needs wounding,_  he thought, turning to run full pelt back to his own chalet.

 

 

\--

 

Breathing hard, Sherlock winced as he brought his fingers to his swollen lip, the tips coming away red. He was still kneeling at the bottom of the wall where his father had shoved him, and with a painful grunt he shifted onto his backside, a gasp escaping him at the jolt to his bruised stomach.

 

In spite of himself, a lump rose into his throat and a tear squeezed itself from his closed eyes, hating himself, hating father, hating this. The back door creaked again, and Sherlock was instantly back on his guard, opening his eyes into the darkness of the room and croaking out "Dog?".  
 _If father caught him, he's most certainly dead. Of course he is. I can't have friends. Alone protects me. I told him that. I told him, the stupid-_  


 

"No, it's John. John Watson."

Sherlock groaned, hating this boy from such lesser circumstances than himself somehow being around to find him in this state. Another mortified tear slipped down his cheek and Sherlock was gritting his teeth, his skin pink.

"What are  _you_  doing here?"

 

"Never mind that."  Sherlock could see him now, wearing just a long pair of shorts and navigating his way around the mess of the front room towards him. "Are you alright?" He reached Sherlock and bent down, his eyes concerned as they skimmed over his lip. He leaned back to look at Sherlock's stomach and Sherlock could see each curled, blonde hair on the boy's chest up close.

"Aren't you cold?" He asked with chattering teeth, ignoring John's question. John smiled just slightly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Got dressed in a rush, didn't I. Come on, we're getting you out of here."

"Oh please, I'm f-" The boy had slipped an arm around Sherlock's middle, lifting him off the floor rather deftly and slinging Sherlock's arm over one shoulder. The movement sent an almighty jolt through Sherlock's stomach and he gasped midword, ruining his protest.

"You aren't fine." John muttered, backing through the open front door and supporting Sherlock's weight as their feet found the sand. As he began to half carry him across the beach, Sherlock was dizzy but his panic was beginning to set in. He couldn't see Dog anywhere, and his father hadn't returned to finish the beating. It wasn't a good sign.

"Please.." Sherlock tried a different tack, wincing at every jolt of his stomach as John seemed to lead him towards an older chalet a little way down the beach, "I.. Have you seen a - a Golden Retriever-"

"He's fine." John answered simply, and Sherlock could tell that he was being fobbed off.

"No!" He demanded angrily, gritting his teeth as he shivered, trying hard to plant his feet on the floor and prevent John from dragging him any further. "He's - my father, he chased-"

"Sherlock-" John frowned, before bending down and slipping an arm beneath the crook of Sherlock's legs, seeming to decide to carry his uncooperative patient the last five metres to his chalet, "Please listen - he's fine, I've seen him. He got away."

"He got away?" Sherlock repeated hopefully, trying to ignore his mortification of being carried around so easily by this  _boy_.

 

"Scot free. Your dad was running scared."

Sherlock began to laugh, his bloodied lip cracking even further as the giddiness seemed to take hold, drowning in his relief. John shook his head just slightly, opening his creaky back door and setting Sherlock down unsteadily on his feet.

"Good." He nodded, before trying to take a step and nearly ending up flat on his face.

"Jesus-" John caught him and sighed, steering him into the front room and pushing him down gently onto the pile of blankets. "Stay there," He ordered, "I've got a first aid kit. You're alright."

"Running scared.." Sherlock repeated, a smile still on his lips as he closed his eyes, burying his face in the blankets.

 

\--

 

John's hands too were shaking, though less from shock or pain - as Sherlock's were - and more from an anger at the man that was supposed to protect his friend. The man that was probably now ranting and raving, and taking out his aggression on the other members of his family. John felt guilt that he couldn't help Sherlock's mother and brother. But one was hard enough.

 

He ran thick pieces of cotton-wool beneath the tap, soaking them through and carrying them back into the front room in his hands. Placing them on one of his t shirts, John bent down in front of Sherlock, his friend's face still buried in the blankets.  
"Look at me." He commanded quietly, and Sherlock reluctantly lifted his head. His eyes were morose again, seemingly having got past his giddy relief at John-the-dog's safety. Blood was drying on his lip and chin and John lifted a damp piece of cotton wool.

"Can I..?"  
"What's the point?" Sherlock answered bitterly. "He'll only make it bleed again."  
John frowned, taking that as a yes and slipping a hand to firmly cup the other boy's cheek. He dabbed at the cut with the cotton wool and cleaned up the excess blood, Sherlock wincing occasionally. 

"He should be reported." John murmured quietly, his eyes on the boy's lips and not entirely innocently. "The police-"

"Couldn't do anything." Sherlock answered simply. "My father is a Detective Inspector. Can you spell 'corruption'?"

John sighed, anger blooming in his chest again as he freed Sherlock's face. He carried the dirty cotton wool through to the bathroom and flushed it down the loo, before returning to sit next to the other boy. There was next to nothing he could do for a thump to the stomach.  
"That's messed up." He noted, and the chalet fell into silence.

"You live here?" Sherlock asked after a moment, fingers still pressed to his stomach as his eyes roamed around the pitiful wooden shack. 

John found himself shrugging away the heat that rose into his cheeks. "It's temporary."

"You're homeless." The other boy observed, and John nodded.

"More or less."

"Why?"

 

Silence fell once more, and John turned his face to the window. From where they were sitting on the floor, he could see the stars shining above the sea, and focused on that for a few moments.

"You know my secret." Sherlock murmured rather disgruntledly, shifting where he sat and wincing. "I think it's only fair that I know yours, too."

"You wouldn't understand the half of it." John replied, his words mumbled as his fingers toyed with the frayed edge of the blanket.

"Says the boy that hasn't yet questioned my budding friendship with a golden retriever."

John chuckled, wishing he could tell Sherlock just how closely the two were aligned.   
"Nothing wrong with that. Golden Retrievers are good dogs."

"This one's the best. I should try and find him-"

Sherlock made to try and get up, but John turned to press a hand to his shoulder.  
"No - no you don't. Not tonight. Your dad could find you. He's probably still drunk, and angry."

"You saw him? Hit me?" Sherlock frowned, wondering why he couldn't recall seeing John Watson there.

"Wh..  Uh, no."  John shook his head. "I'm next door, aren't I? Heard the racket. Saw him running off with a mad dog on his heels."

"Dog isn't mad." Sherlock protested, and  John turned his head to smile just slightly.

 

"Yeah, I know." He replied, and set his hand down, rather unexpectedly finding Sherlock's cold fingers beneath his own. Both boys froze at the contact, turning to look at each other and John swallowed, fearing he had made a terrible mistake.

"You're an odd fellow, John Watson."

_You haven't seen anything yet,_ John thought with a wry smile, his heart skittering in his chest as he wound warm fingers around Sherlock's.

 

\--

 

John had been holding his hand for about an hour, and Sherlock's fingers were well and truly warmed. The other boy was still only wearing a pair of shorts, and shivered every now and then. If he wasn't so reluctant to let go of John's hand, Sherlock might have told him to go and put some more clothes  on.

 

Instead, he threw a blanket over John's shoulders and pulled it around his own too, wincing again at the pull on his stomach.

They'd been speaking about Sherlock's activities over the past few days; the visits to the museums and landmarks, and John seemed to find it all very funny. At one point, he even finished Sherlock's sentence for him, which was slightly unsettling. Sherlock took it to mean that he was being boring and predictable, but John protested, squeezing his hand and saying that he liked to listen.

"Nobody likes listening to me, and then in the space of a few days I get an avid audience.." He murmured, smiling at the thought of Dog huffing and nudging in reply to his stories. "I'll have to introduce you to the dog." He added, and John gave a rather non-committal nod. Sherlock supposed that was normal. John Watson probably thought he was crazy.

 

Sherlock wasn't sure what to make of this hand-holding business. He enjoyed it, that was evident. John's hands were rough and warm around his own thin fingers, but he wasn't sure what it all meant. He'd never been particularly into girls, but then he hadn't liked boys either. Sherlock had never liked anyone, and nobody had ever liked him.

"John.." He began, hesitantly. "Why are you holding my hand?"

John raised his eyebrows, looking over with quiet words. "Would you like me to stop? We've been doing it for hours.."

"No." Sherlock said quickly, before sucking pensively on his cut lip. 

"I don't know what it means either." John chuckled, giving Sherlock's fingers a squeeze. "I'm not just using you for access to the salad bar."

"I'd say you could sit with my family, but.." Sherlock raised their held hands, looking pointedly at John. "I'm not sure my father would like this. I think, actually, the only thing he'd hate more than you would be the dog."

John looked heavenward for a moment, as if he found the idea funny and Sherlock pursed his lips, bemused.   
"What?"

"Oh, nothing." He paused, composing his expression and looking in the direction of Sherlock's chalet. "What are you going to do?"

Sherlock sighed, yawning and giving one meek rub to his eye.  
"Go back, of course. It's quiet. He's probably passed out by now."

"Sherlock, I don't like-"

"It isn't your concern, John."  
Sherlock's words were not unkind, but he could still see the hurt and concern flicker across the other boy's face. With a sigh, he freed John's hand and stood, clutching at his stomach as he rose. John clambered up too, his skin goosepimpling in the cold air of the damp chalet. 

"I mean," Sherlock tried to rephrase, "There isn't anything you can do. You kept me out of the way this evening, and I thank you for that. And I.. I look forward to seeing you again, very much."

John raised his eyebrows just slightly, his cheeks pinkening as he caught Sherlock's meaning.  
"Oh.. Oh. Yeah. Yeah, me too. Tomorrow?"

"I'll introduce you to Dog."  
John grimaced just slightly and Sherlock thumped him in the shoulder.

"Stop that. He's brilliant. Truly intelligent. You'll see."

John sighed and rolled his eyes, walking his friend reluctantly to the door.  
"Just.. be careful, please. If you need.. I mean, if you.." He swallowed. "I'm just next door."

Sherlock smiled, and before John knew what was happening, the other boy had leaned in to press cool lips to his own, the slight bump of Sherlock's cut lip odd against his mouth. John leaned in, his fingers curling around Sherlock's wrists and pulling him closer, but the other boy broke away, leaving John rather breathless.

He laughed, once, eyes shining and swept through the back door - John peeking out just in time to see him running across the sands and back to his own chalet, a light on in his bedroom window.

 

\--


	6. Switch

The next morning when Sherlock awoke, he ghosted his fingers over his lips, rather shocked at himself in hindsight. Despite being eighteen years old, he'd quite pitifully never.. kissed.. anyone before. And especially not a boy - a boy that he'd only met properly that very day. It was utterly inconceivable, and he wondered if John thought him insane. Although.. he'd pulled Sherlock closer. That had to be a good sign, didn't it?

 

The night before, after dashing back to his chalet, Sherlock had hesitated before walking in. Had his father still been awake - or even conscious, he imagined he would have been in for a hell of a beating. Well, perhaps. Often mother and Mycroft stepped in, though that had been less frequent since he'd gotten older. But no - Sherlock had walked through the darkened living room, his parents' bedroom door closed. There was no sign of the scuffle; not even a speck of Sherlock's blood on the plush carpet.

 

Mycroft had been asleep when Sherlock had gotten in, but now he hopped down from the top bunk, pulling off his sleep t shirt and beginning to button himself into a shirt.   
"Dare I ask where you loped off to, last night?"

"If by 'lope off', you mean 'escape from father's fists'.." Sherlock began, his voice low and unamused. Mycroft paused in his buttoning and ducked down, poking his head beneath the bunk to look at his brother. His eyes lingered on the boy's cut lip, and he grimaced just slightly, turning away as if disgusted by his brother's state.  
"You shouldn't aggravate him so." Mycroft offered, more softly as he pulled on his trousers, stoically not looking at Sherlock.

"Aggravate him." Sherlock huffed, reminding himself almost immediately of Dog. "As if he needed reason to do what he does."

He threw himself off the bed and dressed quickly, before stalking out of the bedroom past his brother.

"Sherlock, aren't you coming for breakfast?"  
His mother was arranging her hair as she called after him, but he hurried out of the chalet. 

 

 

Reaching the beach, he was smiling at the sight of his favourite canine, padding languorously along the shoreline. The coastal wind made it slightly chillier than Sherlock was used to, and he hugged his arms across his chest as he approached Dog, the Retriever wagging his tail and bounding over to him as he noticed him in return.

"Hello, you! Where'd you disappear off to last night? I was worried."  
Sherlock stroked his fingers through the dog's fur, and they began to walk along the shore until they reached their favourite spot on the sandbank, shielded just nicely by the wind.

Sitting down, Sherlock almost immediately threw his arms around Dog's neck, burying his face in the fur.  
"I didn't know what had happened to you." He mumbled, his words thick and muffled.  
 _I thought my father caught up with you._

Dog tried to turn his head, as if looking back at the boy resting his face on his back and gave a quiet whimper, though he wagged his tail at the same time. Sherlock released him, and Dog butted his nose gently at the midsection of Sherlock's shirt, as if he knew where his newly flowering bruise lay beneath.

Sherlock winced, and lifted up his shirt just slightly to examine the dark circle.  
"I know. But it would have been alot worse if you hadn't.. if you hadn't of.." For one of the first times since he'd begun speaking to Dog, Sherlock's words faltered and his eyes found the sand.  
"Thank you. You daft great thing."

Dog huffed, resting on his haunches to snuffle his nose into Sherlock's neck, the boy shrieking and shrinking away as he laughed.

 

"I have - I have something else to tell you too." Sherlock continued, a rather coy smile on his lips. Dog paused as if listening intently, his tail beating continuously on the sand.

 

"I.. kissed someone."

Dog leaped on him, licking his cheek and pushing him back into the sand as Sherlock wriggled and shrieked, eventually throwing him off as the dog paced before him, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

"It was the boy from yesterday. The homeless one. Well; he isn't homeless. He lives in that chalet-" Sherlock pointed, but Dog didn't even follow his hand, just watching him speak as if gleeful. 

"He helped me. After father.." 

At his pause, Dog whimpered again just slightly, though seconds later he was smiling his canine grin, tongue returning to loll out of his mouth. 

"I know it's rather fast. You don't have to worry."

Dog calmed down, circling before he lay on the sand again, his head on his paws. His eyes followed Sherlock morosely, and Sherlock was backtracking, wondering if his happiness was slightly premature.

"Of course, I don't really know him. He won't tell me why he's homeless." He crossed his arms beneath his head as he laid back, continuing with a sigh. "And we're leaving at the end of the week."

Muzzle resting on the sand, Dog put one paw over his nose, as if despairing of it all.

 

"But I think I want to see him again." Sherlock stretched slightly where he lay, his voice thoughtful. "He has nice eyes."

Dog huffed a snort, sitting up to look pointedly at Sherlock as he lay, shielding his eyes from the sun.

"What!? He does. Blue. I noticed. I always notice. Like Delphinium."

Sherlock sensed, rather than saw Dog's clueless look, and explained.  
"They're flowers."

 

A few moments passed, both man and dog closing their eyes under the gentle heat of the sun, until Sherlock sprang up.

"I'm going to introduce you. I promised I would." 

He began to make his way over to the chalet, patting his thigh for Dog to follow, though the Retriever stayed firmly planted on the sand, another whine making its way from his muzzle. 

 

"Come on! He's great - I promise.  _Dog_."

But Dog began to huff vehemently, shaking his head and making a noise as if sneezing. Sherlock laughed incredulously, still jogging over to the chalet.

"Fine, I'll bring him to you!"

 

 

\--

 

 

_Oh, shit. Shit, bugger, fuck-_

 

John-the-dog looked around himself for some kind of inspiration, some sort of solution. Of course, they could never be there at the same time, although he'd somehow found himself becoming important to someone in two different ways. Two different bloody bodies! All at once, John spotted the remains of an old picnic blanket caught in the reeds a little while away.

 

Waiting until Sherlock had turned back to the chalet, he made a run for it, four legs moving at full pelt as he grabbed the thing in his mouth, before darting off to the end of the beach where the public loos were. 

 

"Dog?"   
He could hear Sherlock's disappointed call as he transformed, leaning disgustedly against the wall of the tiled bathroom. His change was quick; he hadn't even needed his traumatic memory. Sherlock's voice had spurred him on, and just the idea of that was crazy. Hurriedly wrapping his bare arse in the sandy blanket, John wondered how on Earth he'd grown so attached to this other boy in just a few days - although he supposed to Sherlock, it must seem much less than that.

 

After a few moments, John appeared, barefoot and barechested from the loo, the tartan blanket covering his modesty as he began to walk back up the beach. 

_Well, I hope they aren't bloody patrolling today. I'll be escorted from the resort for sure._

 

Still, John almost wished he had a camera to capture that exact moment that Sherlock turned around to look at him, his eyes widening as they travelled down his torso and came to rest on his makeshirt tartan kilt.

 

"What.. on.. Earth..?" He remarked incredulously, each word punctuated by a step in John's direction, arms folded across his chest. John shivered from the sea wind, though was unable to keep a shy smile from his face. He'd been the same when greeting his friend in canine form, though of course their relationship was somewhat different.

"Hi." 

"John Watson." Sherlock greeted, a smile playing at the edge of his lips. His eyes fell to rest on John's mouth, and John mirrored the action for a moment, until they both looked away rather quickly.  "Any reason you're..  _wearing_  an old blanket?"

  
"Old blanket?" John let his mouth drop open in mock outrage, "I hope you don't mean my kilt." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John shifted his grasp on the tartan material. "Broken kilt."

A beat of silence passed between them, and Sherlock was looking at him seemingly speechless, mouth open but no sound coming out. 

"I went skinny dipping." John explained eventually, with a shrug. "Lost my shorts somewhere along the way."

 

"You aren't wet."

"I sunbathed until I was dry."

"Naked?"

"I had my ki- blanket."

Sherlock shook his head, an incredulous chuckle slipping from his lips, and John relaxed slightly, slightly perturbed by how easy he could lie to his friend.

"It's freezing today." Sherlock noted with slightly widened eyes.  "You really  _are_  mad."

"It's bracing." John protested, though his teeth chattered as he stood, the pair talking in front of John's chalet.

"Oh, sorry, were you-"  
"Were you knocking at my door?"

The pair spoke at the same time, and John shifted rather awkwardly while Sherlock blushed, running a hand through his curls.

"I wanted to introduce you to the dog. But he's rather disappeared again. He  _is_  real."

"Don't doubt it for a second. Are you coming in?"

  
Sherlock risked a glance back at his own chalet, where he could see his mother peering out of the curtains. Last night, he'd been informed that they were going on a boat trip today, and Sherlock could not think of anything more dire. If he hid with John Watson, at least he wouldn't have to go. Or more importantly, face father.

"Yes I am." He answered simply, before pushing a chuckling John in his 'kilt' inside his ramshackle chalet.

 

 

\--

 

Sherlock could have laughed at how pink John's cheeks had gone, along with the tips of his ears. He clutched the blanket to him as he swept a pair of shorts and some pants from the floor and disappeared into the tiny bathroom, leaving Sherlock to gaze around the  _masterpiece_  of an abode that he called home. Within a few seconds, the other boy had reappeared, clearing his throat rather embarrassedly.

 

"Much better." He remarked, and Sherlock shrugged. John's body wasn't particularly unpleasant, and after yesterday evening it seemed all the same to him. 

"I thought you lost your shorts." He murmured, taking a few steps across the damp carpet, his gaze inquisitive. 

"I.. have a couple of pairs." John shrugged, before running a hand through his hair and tugging on a faded t shirt. "I'm homeless, not completely helpless." He sat himself down in the pile of blankets and began to hunt around, before leaning back to tear a bite out of a bread roll from last night's dinner.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile slightly at the sight, knowing that it was his facilitation that had led to John Watson having lunch at all.   
"Is that mine?"

  
John replied with a mouthful of bread, his brows knitting together as he pulled on his socks and shoes - the chalet wasn't nice enough to be without them.  
"It was yours - and then you gave it to me. Do you want-"

"Don't be ridiculous. I got it for you."

John nodded and swallowed, looking up at Sherlock as he continued to pace rather slowly around the chalet. Not keen on the level difference, he stood up again and took another bite from the roll.

"How's.. stuff?" He asked vaguely, concern etched onto his features. "You know - dad stuff."

Sherlock frowned, his eyes finding the sea out of the window.  
"I wouldn't know. He was effectively comatose when I returned last night. And he wasn't up yet this morning. I'm sure I'll hear from him later in the afternoon."

 

Both boys frowned worriedly at the prospect, and Sherlock turned slowly to face John, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt.  
"I want to thank you for helping me. Patching me up and.. getting me out of these, I suppose."

John shook his head, the protest already on his lips before Sherlock stole it from him, his fingers twining into John's t shirt as he pulled him close and pressed their mouths together.  _Again._  


The bread roll dropped from his fingertips and rolled a little ways back, John needing his hands to rest almost awkwardly on Sherlock's waist as they kissed. The other boy's hands were cupping John's jaw,  and he couldn't help but sigh at the rough slide of their lips together, until Sherlock pulled back rather abruptly and left John gasping.

 

"I think I  _am_  rather hungry actually." He remarked simply, and John was silently incredulous for a moment before a chuckle burst from him, amazed at this bloody strange, ridiculous boy.  _And I'm the bloody weird one!_  


  
"Oh." He answered amusedly, "Is that so?" His heart continued to pound in his chest, smile fading from his lips as he located the dropped bread. He couldn't possibly offer Sherlock that.

"Please don't tell me you're considering eating that off the floor." His friend drawled, and John rolled his eyes.

"Of course I-"

"Come on. We're going to get some real food."

Sherlock's fingers were around John's in an instant, cool and commandeering as he pulled him out of the back door, both of them laughing at the other. John could still taste his friend on his lips, and his stomach fluttered at the sensation. He felt as high as a kite, weightless and giddy. Soppy git, he thought - the feeling ebbing slightly when Sherlock glanced back at the beach for a split second, concern flickering through his expression. John pursed his lips and squeezed the other boy's hand. 

 

He knew exactly who Sherlock had been looking for. 

 

 

\--

 


	7. Delphinium

"I missed breakfast," Sherlock remarked as they walked down the path, catching John's worried glance back at his parents' chalet, "I imagine that's where they are now." He lowered his voice just slightly, "If you can call 'whiskey' a breakfast."  
  
John shook his head, trying not to think about what might happen after Sherlock's father drank himself to oblivion.  
"Can you really call it breakfast anyway? It's half past eleven!"  
  
"More of a brunch, really, isn't it?" Sherlock brought their entwined hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of John's fingers, enjoying the shy smile that ran across his face. "Though I imagine with the fuss they make over each meal, there's hardly time for breakfast  _and_  lunch in only a matter of hours."  
  
"And we're going..?"  
  
"Don't be silly, John. How could we possibly stroll in like this?"  
  
For a moment John thought he meant holding hands, and felt the heat rise into his cheeks before Sherlock elaborated.  
"Neither of us are dressed appropriately."  
  
"Okay. Yeah, I suppose you're right."

 

 

  
They'd reached the bottom of the path, and Sherlock suddenly jolted to the left, jogging around the side of the building and pulling a rather bemused John Watson after him. Veering around the corner, Sherlock pressed himself suddenly close to the wall, and John stood next to him, following suit.  
"What are we doing?" He whispered fervently, his hands against the brickwork as Sherlock leaned forward just slightly as if scouting out their next move.

 

"Brunch should be going on for a fair while yet, but all the food should be out by now. That means the chefs will have gone, and the afternoon cooking workshop set up.."

Sherlock was speaking quickly, easily, as if John was supposed to know what that meant. He hazarded a guess.

 

"So we're going to.. sneak in?"

The other boy pushed himself from the wall, straightening his loose shirt over his shorts and running a hand through errant curls.

"It's empty. Who needs to sneak?"  
Lacing his fingers with John's again, Sherlock tugged him away from the wall and into the kitchen door a little ways down, John bracing himself to be yelled at or grabbed by security.

 

Instead, they walked in easily, the kitchen empty and John marveling at its grandeur. His part time job a couple of years ago had been in a restaurant oddly enough, and he'd been expecting the same wash of stainless steel - but this was something else altogether. High marbled worktops spread out throughout the huge room with three or four industrial ovens that somehow fit the elaborate rustic decor. There were tall, beige refrigerators and two large enamel sinks with stacking racks bigger than John's bedroom at home. They must have to wash the plates by hand - which made sense, if he thought of the salad plates back at his chalet. Posh china, with intricate designs and ringed edging. Probably not dishwasher safe.

Stepping inside, John gave a small huff of surprise, and another when he noticed the neat pile of ingredients on every segment of marbled worktop, all aligned at one side of the room, with a whiteboard across one wall. Written on it in swirly writing were the words ' _Charlotte Royale'_ and John looked up at Sherlock with raised eyebrows.

"Cooking class?"

"Yes. I'd say we have about an hour." He freed John's hand and ran over to a line of hooks on the wall, taking one of the chef's hats and positioning it over his curls. "What do you think?  _Bonne, oui_?"

John laughed, shaking his head and catching the white apron that Sherlock tossed at him, his friend fastening his own around his waist. John slipped it over his head, his eyes on the beige fridges.   
"I thought we were just going to steal some stuff?"

"Ah,  _no no no_!" Sherlock was still using the french accent and John chuckled, unable to stop himself. "' _Orrible. Theess food is - 'ow you say? - 'crap'._ "

 

He was making his way over to a pile of ingredients and John followed with an amused "Oh God..", expecting that this wouldn't go well.

 

 

\--

"Whisk the eggs and sugar before folding the flour into the mixture.." John read aloud from the embossed task sheet, shaking his head as Sherlock began to beat the ingredients together in a mixing bowl. 

"Are we actually making this thing?" He asked incredulously, though he couldn't keep the grin from his lips. "It can't - we can't even eat it today! Sherlock, it takes twenty four hours to set-"

"Are you going to get the flour or just stand around making complaints?" Sherlock shot back in reply, a glimmer of something mischievous in his eye. John raised his eyebrows.  _Are we flirting? Is that what's going on here?_ "If you're hungry, grab something from the fridge."

John supposed he should probably eat if given the chance, and walked over to the beige fridges, opening one to reveal an array of cellophane wrapped dishes and half-prepared meals. Leaning in, he grabbed two cucumber sandwiches from a plate and chuckled as he walked back to Sherlock, the chef's hat still perched comically on his curls.

 

He'd scarfed down both sandwiches in a matter of moments, leaning across the counter to watch Sherlock mix concentratedly as he  did so. It was quite funny, really. 

 

John's mouth was dry as he watched his friend, growing rather transfixed as he watched him work. One curl falling errantly over his eyebrow and eyelashes brushing his cheekbones, John couldn't quite believe his luck. Even if it didn't last. Even if John could only eventually relate to him as his Dog form, or grew tired of lying to him. It wasn't as though he enjoyed it; but when was the right time to expose a truth like that? Whatever happened, he had deceived Sherlock, and that wouldn't be received well. The last thing the other boy needed was to be hurt by someone else in his life.

 

John swallowed rather nervously, and Sherlock glanced up at him, seeming rather bemused at his gaze.  
"Are you going to help or just-" He shifted the mixing bowl to one hand and dipped his fingers into a bag of flour. "- _stand there_."  
Sherlock's fingers flicked out, and John sucked in a breath as the flour hit him in the face, powdering his mouth and nose.

A split second was all he needed before he laughed once, one incredulous beat before he was launching himself over the counter to grab the flour bag. Digging in his own hand, he tossed some at Sherlock in return, the flour catching in his dark curls and falling over his forehead. Sherlock cried out in shock, though he was laughing as he dropped the bowl, running over to the next counter along to grab his own flour bag.

 

A war ensued. Sherlock was meticulous in his attacks, fingers pinching handfuls of flour that he tossed at John as they chased each other around the room, shrieking and laughing. John instead tried a different tactic; he merely tore half the bag open and held it by the end, only having to wave the bag sharply at his friend to coat him in white powder.

  
"We look like - coke addicts-" He rasped amusedly, turning his face away as Sherlock threw another handful of flour to hit him in the cheek.  
"Bit of an - expensive habit-" Sherlock replied, hat falling off and his voice strained as he laughed, running away from John's next attack.

At that moment, a voice came from near the doorway, and both boys looked wide-eyed at each other before darting into the storage cupboard.

 

 A young waitress entered the kitchen and gasped at the mess, standing frozen for a moment as if trying to decide what to do. After a few seconds had passed, she merely grabbed the pile of plates that she had entered for and dashed back out, seemingly choosing to leave the mess to someone else.

  
In the cupboard, John and Sherlock were pressed close and watching through a crack in the door, silent giggles wracking their flour-coated bodies.  
"Oh my - God!" John mouthed silently, wondering why he wasn't more bothered about nearly being caught. Sherlock didn't even answer, a hand clapped over his mouth as he tried to stop the laughter shaking his body. After a few moments, they were breathing more evenly, John's heart finally calming in his chest before he realised how close they were suddenly standing.

 

His eyes fell to Sherlock's throat as the other boy swallowed, and John smiled just slightly, wondering if he too had just come to the same realisation. After a beat of silence, John leaned in, his warm hands finding the floured skin of Sherlock's cheeks as he kissed him, more white powder falling from their hair and clothes as it quickly turned into something more needing.

 

"John.." Sherlock murmured against his lips, his hands slipping beneath John's t shirt and finding warm, hard skin. John breathed out a shaky breath before resuming their kiss, a slight smile at the thought of the other boy spreading flour over his stomach. His heart thudding steadily in his chest, he let his tongue probe inquisitively, parting Sherlock's lips and prompting a sigh from his friend that sent a spike of heat straight to John's groin.

 

Within a few seconds, Sherlock had him pressed to the closed cupboard door, the light spilling between the hinges the only source illuminating their faces. John's gasp caught in his throat as Sherlock's thumb hooked itself into his underwear, and his friend broke the kiss to whisper quietly against his mouth, his words slightly nervous.  
"I.. really like you."  
John swallowed, his fingers tracing a line in the flour on Sherlock's cheek. His eyes flitted between each of Sherlock's, searchingly.  
"I like you too."  
"I don't.. I don't think 'like' is the correct word, somehow." If John could tell correctly, Sherlock's words were trembling, and he leaned in to close the gap again, their mouths moving wetly together. Sherlock's thumb continued to stroke over his hipbone, and John's hand fell to rest against the back of his friend's neck.

 

Opening his eyes a few moments later, John found Sherlock's gaze fixed on his own. He found that his eyes had adjusted just slightly to the dark, and he could make out the dark brush of Sherlock's eyelashes.. the smooth curve of his lips and the flour that dusted his curls.  
"You have beautiful eyes.." Sherlock whispered, raising his fingers to skim across John's cheek, just below his left eye. John could have laughed; he'd been thinking the very same thing about Sherlock's own eyes, and.. and all of him really.  
"So blue.." His friend continued, tilting his head just slightly. John chuckled softly, looking away shyly and murmuring in return.  
"I know. Like 'Delphinium'. Right?"

  
He leaned forward, enveloping Sherlock's lips with his own again, realising after a few moments that his friend had become still under his touch.  
"Sherlock?" He whispered, his thumb grazing over his friend's cheek momentarily.

"I never told you that." Sherlock's voice was still quiet, but suddenly steady, his body tense under John's hands. "I never told you about Delphinium."

John's mouth immediately went dry, his heart skipping a beat as the terrible realisation crept over him. It was as though ice had flooded his veins, and he was stammering, his mind blank, desperately trying to backtrack.

 

"I.. You.. I.."

Sherlock's hands were suddenly drawn away, the other boy stepping back. John could barely see him, but he could sense the wary expression on his face and hear the doubt and confusion in his voice.  
"How could you possibly.. I never.. I only.. to.."

"Sherlock-"

His friend pushed open the cupboard door rather forcefully, flooding them with light. His eyes were roaming over John's face, his brows furrowed in confusion as he tried to understand. John could practically see the cogs turning in the other boy's mind, trying to piece together some logical explanation. His gaze settled on John's hair, and John knew what he was thinking. That John's hair was the exact shade of the Retriever's, that John knew something that only the dog had heard him say.

"Impossible.." He gasped, the word both shocked and somewhat appalled as he staggered out of the cupboard and away from John.

"Please, Sherlock," John was walking towards him slowly, hands extended just slightly in his attempt at desperate reasoning, bargaining. "L-let me.. let me explain.."

"Get away from me-" Sherlock snapped, his eyes still wide as he looked at John as if he'd never seen him before. In his haste to back away, he knocked the mixing bowl to the floor with a smash, barely glancing down before he was looking back at John and shaking his head in pure disbelief. His mouth hung open slightly as he staggered backwards and pushed through the door of the kitchen, stalking back out into the afternoon air.

"Sherlock.." John said quietly, the sound more akin to a whine that Dog would make; a guilty lament as he stood, covered in flour and alone in the kitchens, arms hugging his chest. 


	8. Drizzle

Sherlock burst into the cool ocean air, his breaths heaving from his chest in shock. He paused for just a moment, resting his hands on his knees and trying to understand.. to come to some.. realistic explanation.

 

 

A moment was all he needed; the fear of John following him was enough to propel him back up the path, angrily swiping the remainder of the flour from his skin with harsh hands. 

  
_I've been a fool_ , he thought, gritting his teeth as he marched back, the wind blowing the tails of his shirt open. _An utter fool. John Watson isn't a boy at all, but some.. mystery of science. No wonder I could never introduce the pair._

_Alone protects me. I should have known._

To think that he'd been speaking with Dog - with John - before he'd even met the boy.. Spilling his secrets and his worries for the future to a boy that most likely had been laughing at him internally. The thoughts that Sherlock had disclosed in confidence - and even about kissing John, that first time. About John's eyes.

 

Sherlock blushed furiously at the thought, and he kicked out at a tuft of grass that was in his way, shoving his hands into his hair and sending more flour into the buffeting wind. It didn't bother him that he hadn't deduced John Watson's secret, though he supposed that it should have. Though Sherlock considered himself a genius, he'd never before heard of a boy being able to change himself into an animal - he'd never have known the signs, regardless. What offended him, what _upset_  him was John's deception.. Letting Sherlock speak about the wretched animal to him, and never once thinking to correct him. Letting Sherlock fall for him on the one hand, and become best friends with him on the other. It was.. selfish. Terrible. It showed Sherlock just how lonely he truly was.

 

_He must think I'm a blind fool too. Well he can starve. He can leave this place, and I'll be gone by the end of the week. I'll forget this whole terrible business. I'll forget John Watson. Every form of John Watson that there is._

  
_Liar._  
Sherlock screamed the word inside his head as he reached the top of the hill, looking out at the crashing waves with a trembling frown, the anger and betrayal fueling him as he kicked out at the sand again, gritting his teeth against an infuriated shriek.

 

\--

 

After a few more anguished minutes, Sherlock turned on his heel with a short sigh, no other alternative but to return home. Approaching the chalet, his footsteps slowed as he noticed the door, open and creaking in the wind. And silence. 

 

Anger fading rather quickly into a still fear in his stomach, he edged closer, fingers untwining from their fists as he reached the door, leaning around it tentatively. 

 

The living room was trashed. Coffee table broken, a dining room chair on its back and a bottle of whiskey smashed and leaking golden liquid onto the carpet with a steady drip. One of his father's shoes lay discarded in the middle of the room, and as Sherlock took a few steps inside, he was glancing warily at his parents' closed bedroom door.

"You're quite safe. He's g-gone out."

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock's brother edged around their bedroom door, hands crossed over his stomach and the arm of his shirt torn. He took a few steps with a steady limp, and his usual combed back hairstyle was mussed and hanging over his eyes. Blood pooled in one nostril, and the beginnings of a black eye blossomed over his cheekbone and brow. As Sherlock breathed his name in shocked sympathy, his brother winced and stopped walking, leaning heavily against the doorframe.

"I.. I smashed a glass." He explained pitifully, his voice a mere shadow of its usual sarcastic drawl. He followed his words with a bitter chuckle and looked away, as if recognising the error in his words this morning. He had 'aggravated' their father no more than Sherlock had. His brother's eyes were shining wet, and Sherlock's anger at John Watson faded into insignificance for the moment.

 

After closing his eyes for a moment and exhaling a low, resigned breath, Sherlock turned and shut the front door softly. He headed over to his brother and hooked an arm around his shoulders, as if they were children again.

"I'll help you. Come on."

 

Guiding his brother to the bathroom, he helped Mycroft out of the ruined shirt, sucking in a breath at his podgy torso, dotted with new bruises that were already flowering dark brown above the old ones.   
"I know." Mycroft muttered, sucking on the inside of his cheek and avoiding Sherlock's pitying gaze. "It was a bad one."

As Sherlock wet a washcloth and handed it to his brother for his bleeding nose, he felt rather guilty. If he hadn't have escaped, this would have been him. His father had been building up to a harsh beating for days, and obviously the need hadn't been satisfied with Sherlock. Thanks to Dog's -  _thanks to John's_ \- interruption.  
"It wasn't your fault." Sherlock replied, taking a comb from the windowsill and straightening his brother's hair, knowing that Mycroft hated being in any state of disarray.

"It just slipped through my fingers.." Mycroft explained quietly, his voice cracking. Sherlock stayed stoically standing at the back of him, knowing that if he was to look at his brother's face, he'd see the mortified tears on his cheeks. "I was carrying it, and it.. it simply fell.."

"Mother?" Sherlock asked, setting down the comb and bending down to press gingerly at his brother's bruised skin. "Mycroft, I think you've broken a rib."

"She swept up the broken glass." He replied quietly, eyes staring rather morosely at the wall. "And then she went for a lay down."

_All the time whilst father was beating Mycroft to a pulp. A fine way to help him, mother._

  
Sherlock pursed his lips and shook his head, hating that this was his life. This was reality, for all of them. John Watson had managed to distract him from it for a few days, in whatever form. But this was it. This was home.

 

"Your ankle?" He inquired gently, and Mycroft looked down. He was sitting on the toilet with the lid down, and rolled his foot slightly to test the joint.

"Just a sprain, I imagine. I shouldn't have come on this trip."

 

Sherlock bent down, pressing his fingers to Mycroft's swollen ankle. He was right; it seemed like a sprain. Otherwise, he mightn't have been able to walk on it at all.   
"Why did you?" He asked quietly, eyes averted.

Mycroft tipped back his head, the towel still pressed to his bleeding nose.  
"To protect you, of course." He replied, as if it were of no more consequence than passing the salt at the dinner table. He gave another bitter chuckle. "Fine job I did."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, the guilt surging freshly in his chest.  
"You needn't have done that." He replied with a sigh, getting back to his feet. "But.. thank you."

Mycroft nodded, and Sherlock leaned down to grasp his arm, lifting him back to standing as best he could.  
"Come on. Bed, brother."

 

Mycroft put an arm around Sherlock's shoulers, and he was instantly reminded of John; how the other boy had carried him, injured to his chalet. Had patched him up with his ramshackle first aid kit, and held his hand all night. 

 

A lump in his throat, Sherlock struggled back to the bedroom with his brother, not even trying to get him up to the top bunk, but switching the pillows around for his comfort. With a short grunt, he set him down on the bottom bunk and stood back, straightening his shirt and ready to leave.

 

Mycroft reached out, closing his fingers around Sherlock's wrist at the last moment.

"I - I'm sorry I'm so.. terrible to you, Sherlock." He said quietly, his eyes sad as Sherlock met his gaze. "I don't.. mean it. I don't mean to be so dreadful."

Sherlock freed his wrist from his brother's grasp and leaned down, pulling the covers up around his shoulders.  
"Go to sleep, Mycroft." He ordered quietly, but hesitated to smile just slightly before he left the room.

 

Straightening up the living room before he left the chalet, Sherlock didn't think he'd ever hated his father more.

 

\--

 

As he closed the front door behind him, it had begun to rain, tiny flecks of drizzle that blew in Sherlock's face with the wind. He leaned down to pull off his shoes and socks as he reached the sand, before folding his arms across his chest, shivering as he walked.

 

He couldn't quite summon the same anger at John that he'd had before, not in light of recent events. His eyes found the spot that he'd sat with Dog, and he walked past, reaching the shore before he stopped. His gaze settled on the horizon of the grey sea, fingers tight on his arms as his shirt blew and flapped in the breeze.   
 _He sat with me nearly every day this week, and I didn't realise. He was content to sit there and let me speak, for hours on end. About my life. My father, the day trips.. University. About even himself, when I was aware of him. As another person._

The memories swirled in Sherlock's mind, each taking on a new meaning now that he knew that it had been John Watson all along.   
 _Poking his nose at my bruises like he was concerned about me_..  _Darting in front of me when I was trying to go back to father.. Saving me from father's fists, and going after him..'Running scared'.._  
Mycroft's battered body floated before Sherlock's eyes and he grimaced slightly, wondering if his fate would have been better or worse than his brother's. Without John's intervention.

 

_He even fetched a ball for me, when I threw it. I suppose that must have been rather demeaning._

  
Sherlock couldn't deny that he was still angry with John's deception, but even that could be explained away, much to his chagrin.  
 _If he left a good home for this, it isn't unreasonable to suppose that he's.. ashamed, perhaps. And then I suppose once it got to a certain stage, it would have been rather difficult to tell me.._

 

_I mightn't even have believed him._

Sherlock wasn't sure how long he'd been standing at the shoreline in the rain, his eyes fixed on the water, but he was getting steadily drenched, his skin goosepimpling and cold beneath the translucent weight of his wet shirt. After a few more moments, he became aware of the sight at the corner of his eye, and knew instinctively what - or who - it was.

 

He kept his eyes stubbornly forward as John-the-dog came to sit next to where he stood in the sand, his fur wet and hanging from his body in long golden tendrils. He too stared out at the sea, not risking a glance at Sherlock, as though stating his willingness to remain out here as long as necessary.

 

The rain was no longer drizzle, but fat drops that made tiny crescents on the water as it hit, and Sherlock was transfixed as he watched, aware that he no longer felt alone with John-the-dog beside him. Even if they weren't speaking, or communicating at all.

  
John-the-dog broke the silence first, a thin whine escaping his muzzle.

"Mycroft's hurt." Sherlock said quietly in reply, his eyes softening as he gazed out at the sea. Dog's head snapped around to look at him, his wet fur a shade darker than normal. He stood up and turned, padding a few steps away as if to make his way to Sherlock's chalet.

"There isn't anything you can do." Sherlock raised his voice just slightly above the wind and rain, breaking his gaze to turn around just slightly, though he looked down at the sand rather than at the Retriever as he paused. "I helped him as best I could. He's bad, though. Broken a rib, I think."

Sherlock swallowed and turned back to the sea, closing his eyes at the gentle nuzzling of a wet and furry head at the backs of his knees.   
"I don't pretend to know what you are." He said steadily, the rain plastering his curls to his head. "And I.. I don't like that you kept it from me." The butting of John-the-dog's head continued, pausing to whimper again quietly. An apology, if Sherlock had ever heard  one.

 

His resolve breaking, he turned around at long last, bending down to rest on his haunches. Face to face with Dog, his questioning gaze met deep brown eyes, so different from John's when he was human. His eyes were deep and sorrowful, golden fur plastered to his head and rainwater dripping from the fur beneath his muzzle.   
He whined again softly, and Sherlock leaned forward with a sigh, wrapping his arms around the Retriever's neck as he fell forward onto his knees. He was accepting John's apology, and at the same time sharing his fear and relief, his hatred of his father and his anguish at the entire situation.

 

His face buried in the wet fur and his body nearly flat against sticky, wet sand, Sherlock shivered, his only heat coming from the dog's body and hot tears that threatened to spill over his eyelids. 

 

\--


	9. Chalet

After a few minutes of laying together in the wet sand, rain pounding down on them, John-the-dog lifted his head and butted Sherlock in the chest with his nose. His insistence was gentle, but he could feel the boy shivering against him in his wet clothes and didn't give up until Sherlock sat up gingerly, dark curls sticking to his forehead.  


 

"You're not completely forgiven." The boy mumbled, dragging a wet arm across his eyes as he got to his feet, John-the-dog nudging the backs of his legs to get him moving. They were heading towards John's chalet, and his fur was heavy and wet, paws thick with sand as they trudged home together. John's guilt was still aching in his chest, wishing that he hadn't added to Sherlock's anguish when the other boy was already so fraught..

 

Sherlock's hands left wet prints on the creaking door as he pushed it open, his clothes dripping on the carpet as he walked inside the ramshackle chalet.

 

Leaving him for a moment, John-the-dog padded over to his blanket pile and grasped his shorts between his teeth, turning to head to the bathroom to.. change. 

 

"Wait.."

Sherlock's tentative command stopped him, and John-the-dog turned around, the material wedged between his jaws as he shivered just slightly, his own matted fur sopping wet.

"I want - I want to see."

 

The boy's eyes were curious, hands clasped uneasily before his stomach. After a few moments of nervous consideration, John-the-dog leaned down to drop the shorts on the damp carpet, Sherlock awkwardly hesitant as he stood to watch.

 

  
_I suppose I owe him this much at least_ , John thought, though he felt a quiet embarrassment that the other boy would see him naked. Sherlock's eyes found the tartan blanket in the pile, and his gaze settled on the shorts with a sudden understanding.

"Oh.." He breathed, and bit his lip for a moment as if trying to think of  some way to help. John-the-dog blinked at him, eyes wandering hopefully back to the enclosed space of the bathroom, before Sherlock was beginning to unbutton his wet shirt, fingers cold and trembling. 

John-the-dog whimpered just slightly, tilting his head as if asking what the boy was doing - though of course it hit him a moment later.  
 _He's taking his clothes off so I don't feel.. exposed. So I don't get embarrassed._

The wet material landed with a muffled thump onto the carpet, and John-the-dog looked down at it with a huff, not wanting to look back up at Sherlock's body just yet. Ready, he laid down and closed his eyes, putting one paw over his eyes as if to shield himself from his friend's bare torso, a move that earned him a nervous chuckle.

 

Time to start, John took a breath and thought back to Sherlock walking out of the kitchen, his shock and outrage written all over his face. He thought of his own guilt, the terrible moment that he'd seen his friend again at the shoreline, soaked to the skin as he stood - so alone. He thought about having caused him more pain, and it was near unbearable.

 

With a long whine that eventually found it's way into a gasp, John's body was changing. His paws elongated, and became elbows, arms, wrists, fingers. His muzzle shrank back, and golden fur seemed to sink away into flushed pink skin, the only thick hair remaining being that on his head, and the area hidden from Sherlock between John's newly returned legs. 

 

Lifting his head at long last to look at his friend, John-the-dog's deep brown eyes were lightening, fading to a soft blue as the golden fur disappeared and his protruding canines slipped back into small, straight teeth. His transformation finished, John was crouching naked on the floor, the sound of his steady, shivering breaths filling the chalet.

A beat of silence passed, and then Sherlock was crouching down to sit beside him as John rocked back onto his knees, hands rushing to cover his modesty.  
"That was incredible." The other boy breathed, shaking his head as he gazed at John in awe. John frowned just slightly, the both of them shivering with their bare chests.   
"I'm sorry." He said quietly, gazing miserably at his goosepimpled skin. "I should have told you."

Sherlock nodded, his lips pursed.  
"You should have."

"I was afraid."

"Why?" Sherlock's brows drew together in his bemusement, as if he couldn't see how John could ever be ashamed of himself. Ashamed of what he was. John's bottom lip trembled, the words having been floating in his mind throughout his transformation, and at his friend's words.

  
"I'm - I'm a freak, Sherlock."

Sherlock's expression was at first disbelieving, and then suddenly stern. "Don't be so ridiculous." He chided angrily, though his voice softened as he reached out, John wincing slightly as the cold fingers settled on his jaw. "That was the most astounding.. the most incredibly awe-inspiring.. thing.. that I have ever seen, John."

"..Really?" John was nearly whispering, his eyes hopeful on Sherlock's, though his mouth was still turned tight down at the corners, ashamed of what his friend knew at long last.

 

Sherlock gave him a pointed look, and leaned forward to press his lips to John's, both cold and soft.   
"Yes, really." He whispered in return, pulling back just slightly. "Though you should have _told_ me. Think of all I could have seen - I could have  _analysed_  you-"

  
Now it was John's turn to shut the other boy up, his hands leaving his exposed crotch to pull Sherlock close and kiss him fervently. 

His friend's hands came to rest against John's bare chest, and he sucked in a breath lightly at the cold touch on his skin, though didn't let up with his kissing. Sherlock pushed him back rather firmly, and John was breaking away, uttering "Wait-" as he jumped away from his friend, hands flying back to cover his crotch. Hurriedly, he spread a blanket over the damp carpet, picking up the others in his arms and tossing them half-heartedly on top.

 

His heart pounding, John tentatively made his way back to Sherlock and gasped, amused as his friend pushed him down rather forcefully onto the spread blanket.   
"Calm down-" He urged teasingly, though his words were breathless and soon after, Sherlock's mouth was moving determinedly on his own again. "Sherlock.." He murmured again, hands coming to rest against the pale skin of the other boy's shoulder blades.

 

All at once, he felt a cool pressure at his crotch and a rather strangled noise caught in his throat, some approximation of Sherlock's name once more.

"Are you saying my name because you like it?" came the low, unsteady question as Sherlock broke away from John's lips, "Or because you don't?"

 

"No, I - I like it-" John managed to gasp, before his friend's hold tightened and he was near whimpering into the cool air of the chalet.  

_I'm a virgin,_  he wanted to say, to tell Sherlock before things went any further.  _I don't know.. I don't know how to do any of this stuff - I don't even have any.. Oh.. Oh, I do._

John's first aid kit had originally been his mothers, stolen from the cupboard as he'd gone to walk out on his family. Amongst the plasters and medicines sat a box of condoms, two packets of lubricant and a great pile of tampons and sanitary towels - it seemingly doubled as an emergency toiletry kit. John remembered his general disgust when he'd first come across them all; had shoved them all into a separate compartment, never to be looked at again.  _Maybe they'll finally come in handy.._

  
_Well, the condoms. And the.. other stuff. Not the girl stuff._

Pulling away again, Sherlock caught the slight anxiousness in John's expression and smiled just slightly, his hand giving another languorous stroke that had John biting his lip.  
"Don't worry," He whispered, pressing a kiss to John's nose. "I haven't done it before either. I'm a.. a-"  
"First aid kit." John interrupted, his words hitching as Sherlock flexed his fingers. "Th-there's stuff in the first aid kit."

Within moments, his friend had jumped up, releasing John and leaving him breathless and hard on the blanket. His eyes closed, he willed himself to calm down - the last thing he wanted was for this to be over in mere seconds, especially when it was.. with Sherlock.  _His_  Sherlock.

 

After rather a lot of rustling, Sherlock returned, John surprised to see that the other boy had also shed his trousers somewhere along the way. The sight of the packets of lube in his friend's hand sent a frisson of fear through him, and Sherlock seemed to sense his fear. He set them down for a moment and resumed his place on the blanket, crawling over John and propping himself up on his elbows.

"You're going to need to relax." He whispered, and John nodded. "I hear it's easiest that way."  
Sherlock's fingers were cool as they found John's, twining together naturally as his other hand slipped back down to John's groin to resume his slow teasing.

"Listen to the rain.." Sherlock offered quietly, and John closed his eyes, trying to focus his attention on the beating of the raindrops upon the chalet roof. A steady drip had begun from the leak in the corner, but he tried to ignore it, basking only in the sensations of Sherlock's hand. After a few, relaxing minutes, John was feeling better, his breathing steady and his heart thudding less erratically than before. 

 

About to inform Sherlock that his suggestion had worked, John's words were lost in a light moan as his friend's hand left his crotch - only to be replaced by an inquisitive mouth only seconds later.  
"Oh - God-" He breathed desperately, Sherlock's cold fingers slipping over his hip and around and -  _when did he open those packets?_

John was tilting his hips as one of Sherlock's fingers slipped inside him, the sensation most strange and yet somehow.. not. Somehow, it felt nice; although coupled with his friend's mouth around him, maybe too nice..

"Stop-" He gasped, fingers falling to rest in Sherlock's curls, "Or I'll - it's - I can't.."

Despite his insistence, Sherlock continued, though he slowed his teasing mouth down somewhat. John jumped slightly as another finger began to circle his puckered skin before slipping inside, the stretch drawing a muted gasp from him as he gritted his teeth.

Sherlock's mouth rolled away from him with a pop, and he was speaking quietly, tentative. "Alright? John?"

John could only nod, his lip caught between his teeth as he tried to get used to the sensation - the phrase 'wrong but right' coming to mind.

  
"Would you rather do-" Sherlock began, leaning forward just slightly and beginning to move his fingers with a quirk of a mischievous smile. "- _doggy_ style?"

John had just enough self-awareness left to swat his friend on the cheek, his hand barely catching the edge of Sherlock's grin.   
 _Bloody doggy style. You think you're bloody hilarious, don't you?_  
Leaning down, the other boy chuckled softly before kissing John again, slipping a third finger inside him after a few distracted moments. This time, it was with more difficulty and John froze mid-kiss, his eyes screwed shut for a moment as he tried to accustom himself to the feeling.

"John?" Sherlock whispered anxiously, and John shook his head, fingers tightening on the skin of his friend's shoulder.

"-m'okay-" John rasped, his voice hoarse and shaking. "..Just.. - now-"

After a tentative circling motion, Sherlock seemed satisfied and was pulling back, John suddenly relieved of the tight pressure. He leaned back onto the blanket with a shaking breath, already aching. The rain continued to beat down, the silence of the chalet interrupted only by the tear of the packets and Sherlock's whispers as he rejoined John, his voice quietly amused.

"This feels.. very peculiar.."

"Are you sure you did it right?" John asked, his own voice a mere shadow of his usual steady tone. 

"Fairly sure." Sherlock replied, his fingers stroking along the skin of John's shoulder as he leaned down to kiss him once more. "John," He began again, words  quieter as he lifted himself above the other boy, curls dangling down over his forehead, "I.. I think I.." Sherlock swallowed, and John couldn't help but smile, despite the thundering of his heart in his chest. 

"I really think that I.. 'Like' is too incomprehensible a word to.."

"I love you, too." John interjected simply, and Sherlock kissed him again, slow and grateful.

 

A few moments passed, and Sherlock's cold fingers laced with John's where he lay, his Adam's apple bobbing above him as he swallowed nervously and positioned himself against John's entrance. Already, John was tilting his head back and pushing himself downwards, seeking some sort of friction - and as Sherlock slowly pushed himself inside, he received his wish in a rather overwhelming capacity.

"Sher - Sherlock-"  
John wasn't sure if he was really making the sounds at all or just mouthing his friend's name mutely, the pressure in his backside threatening to pull him apart at the seams. Sherlock stayed resolutely still, his hands beside John's head trembling as he fought to hold himself up.  
"Take - take all the time you need.." Sherlock stammered, and the breathless edge to his voice had John's stomach fluttering, the throbbing pain beginning to fade just slightly the longer that they were frozen this way.

 

Sherlock leaned down to press a lingering kiss to his lips, shifting onto his elbow as his right hand trailed to John's crotch - and when he moved for the first time, he tightened his fingers as if John were feeling it too.

 

John's responding gasp was low and desperate, and he bit his lip against the noises that were trying to tear their way from his throat as Sherlock slowly began to find a steady pace, each sliding push sending waves of pain and pleasure wracking through his body. The hand on him was coaxing him slowly, and John was certain that he wouldn't last long, even with the steadily pulsing ache in his backside. 

 

"John-" came the broken moan from above him, and John looked up to meet his friend's eyes, his gaze glassy and overwhelmed, lips parted as he moved inside with his slow rhythm. 

"Oh, God-" John stuttered in reply, the sight nothing less than perfect. He was no longer cold, his hands pressing hot prints into Sherlock's bare skin as he pounded against him, the rhythm both fast and sweet. Sherlock's wet curls bounced with each movement, and John wanted to twine his fingers into them, to pull him down again and kiss him as his friend's hand pulsed around him-

 

"I think - I'm-" came Sherlock's fractured croak, his eyes both panicked and lost in his desire as his hand began to move frantically at John's groin, his own pace speeding up and bringing a gasp from John's lips at every sharp slap of skin.

"I - I know-" John replied, mirroring his friend's glazed expression as the hand around him slipped and slid and threw him to the mercy of the coiling tension in his abdomen, which seemed to swiftly unspool as a guttural sigh came from Sherlock's lips. His vision hazing into white for a split second, John Watson was no longer just himself - or whichever 'himself' he chose to be at any given time - but nothing, nothing at all and everything. Drowning in blissful release, he fell back down to Earth with a sticky stomach and the gentle pulse of his friend inside him before they both stilled, panting and trembling and meeting each other's eye with a knowing awe.

 

\--

 

Twenty five minutes later, John  and Sherlock were both still naked, their bodies entwined as they lay beneath a blanket holding hands. Both looked towards the ceiling as they spoke, and Sherlock was listening avidly - much to John's amusement. After cleaning up, they'd shared the last bread roll and laid back down together, both answering questions freely in their blissful post-coital state.

"And then it's like a heat, all over your body. I have to think about something really terrible usually, really emotional. And then it just.. well, happens, I guess."

Sherlock raised their laced fingers to his lips, kissing the back of John's hand.  
"But I still don't understand. Why did you leave home?"

"Panic, I guess. I couldn't control it as well. And it was everything - not just a dog. I was a lizard.. a bird.." He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I thought I was a.. a real.. I don't know what I thought. Only that I had to get away. Keep my mum and sister safe. I wasn't sure what I was capable of."

"Dog is kind and gentle." Sherlock protested softly, propping his head up on one hand. "As are you. What harm could you possibly have brought down on them?"

"Attention. The scientific side. The press? I don't know.. I was.. I just ran."  
John sighed, and Sherlock slipped an arm around his side, pulling him close.

  
"Could you go on like this? In this form? Never changing?"

John shook his head. He'd already thought of that before, but he supposed that Sherlock would want to know everything. Leaning forward, he nuzzled his friend's neck, reminding himself of John-the-dog.  
"No. If I don't change for a week, I feel.. wrong, somehow. Like I'm going to explode. Go crazy. That's.. that's what it felt like, the first few times. Even if I changed every day."

"So you left."

"So I left."  
John sighed, and Sherlock hugged him close, kissing his hair.

 

A few moments passed, and then he spoke again, quietly confident this time. Sherlock's fingers roamed along John's bare side, and John felt a shiver of pleasure from the action, edging closer.  
"You'll do it. You'll go to University. You'll have a life, John. This.. condition - it's manageable, clearly so."

John smiled weakly, glad that his friend thought so. He still wasn't so sure, himself.   
"Maybe one day." He murmured, earning himself a reproving sigh. 

"I'll make sure of it."

"You're going home tomorrow."

Silence fell between them, the slightly morose realisation flooding the newly warm air of the chalet like a bucket of ice water. A few moments passed, and unconsciously they moved closer, placed arms around each other and nestled mouths into skin. It was an unspoken promise, and yet neither could see how it could possibly pan out. Not quite yet, perhaps. 

 

"Let's have dinner." Sherlock whispered eventually, and John nodded, though remained unmoving, his eyes closed as he leaned against his friend's shoulder.

 

\--

 


	10. Splendour

When he had proposed dinner, Sherlock was almost sure that John had not expected him to take him back to meet with his parents', though of course that was what he had meant. His mother possessed their chalet key, and without it, they would never be allowed into the banqueting hall. 

 

 

"Wait,  _what_?" John asked incredulously as he walked back in from the bathroom, wearing the one pair of trousers that he owned. He was otherwise unclothed, and Sherlock could not resist running his hands over his friend's chest, feeling John's heartbeat beneath his fingers. "Why on Earth would you want to go back there? If you think I'm letting you within a mile of your dad.."

"Letting me?" Sherlock repeated amusedly, slipping back into his uncomfortably wet shirt. He'd have to change back at the chalet.

John blushed at his repetition, but kept his cool, staring at Sherlock with stern and concerned eyes.

"I saw what he did to you, Sherlock. I.. I was there, remember?"

Indeed, Sherlock remembered Dog's brown eyes, intense as his muzzle contorted to show rows of snarling teeth. His father pushing Sherlock away to run from the animal. He remembered the pain, too. He always remembered the pain. Mycroft's battered body floated before his eyes, and he pursed his lips.

"He'll be fine tonight. He's.. had his fill, so to speak."

John sighed heavily, buttoning up his only shirt with nimble fingers and shaking his head.  
"I still don't like it."

"We need to eat. You need a good meal, John. You're skin and bone."

 

John's cheeks pinkened as Sherlock's eyes roamed his bare chest, and he turned away with the hint of a smile, as if remembering why it was that Sherlock knew the state of his body.

 

"I thought you said your dad wouldn't like me." He conceded with another sigh, reaching for his creased brown jacket and walking slowly back to Sherlock.

"Oh, he won't."

"Then-"

"We'll be in the banqueting hall. He's the perfect gentleman in public, John. Or at least the illusion of one." Sherlock's words were suddenly bitter, and John had the urge to reach out and put his arms around his friend again. "You'll see, I'm sure."

 

\--

 

As they walked over the damp sand back to Sherlock's chalet, it had stopped raining at long last, though the sun was beginning to set behind the waves. Sherlock still wore his sodden shirt and shorts from earlier, whilst John was carefully dressed to impress; although he wished he had a different set of clothes to put on. Still, if Sherlock was true to his word, they just had to stick this out until they'd had dinner. After that, his father's opinion of John wouldn't matter. 

 

Climbing up the slight hill, John recognised an unfamiliar ache in his backside and chuckled under his breath, receiving a questioning look from Sherlock. He shook his head as if dismissing the thought and reached for Sherlock's hand, though his friend pulled away his arm and nodded pointedly at the windows of the chalet before them.

"Oh - right, yeah.."

Sticking his hands in his pockets, John's stomach seemed to flip over as they walked the few steps to the door, recognising Sherlock's mother as she opened it and shot John a polite, if quizzical look.   
"Hello there.. Sherlock, why aren't you dressed for dinner? What happened to your clothes?"

"Caught in the rain." Sherlock answered with an errant wave of his hand, brushing off his mother's observation and walking in past her. She stood by to let John pass and he smiled gratefully, though slightly bashful. In the living room, Sherlock's father was fitting his cufflinks by the dining room table, and as soon as John saw him he felt something inside of himself swell and burn, as if he'd like to have another go at tearing into the man. Truthfully, he would.

Just the sight of the man's calm, composed expression reminded John of how he'd looked that night, his features contorted in rage as he beat his son.

 

The man looked up as Sherlock swept in, his mouth immediately puckering into an irritated grimace.  
"What on Earth are you wearing, boy? Go and get dressed-"

"Father, mother - this is John Watson. He'll be joining us for dinner tonight. He's a friend."  
Sherlock's introduction was polite and simple, and he smiled in John's direction as both of his parents' gazes turned to land on John, subtly looking him up and down.

Sherlock dashed off to get ready, leaving him awkwardly alone.  
John tore his wary gaze from Sherlock's father and smiled rather awkwardly back, hands still deep in his pockets.  
"Er.. hi. I'm John - I hope that's okay..?"

Sherlock's mother opened her mouth, hesitating to answer as her eyes went to her husband, fiddling with a bracelet on her wrist.

"That sounds great." came another voice from Sherlock's bedroom doorway, and Mycroft smiled, straightening his suit jacket as he appeared in all his finery. "A pleasure to meet you, John Watson."  
He walked over with an easy grace and held out a hand, John hurriedly pulling his hand from his pocket to shake hands with the other man. He had the dark shadow of a black eye grazing the skin of his cheekbone, the corner of  one eye red.  
"You too." John replied with a smile, his voice softening just slightly. _I know what you're all going through. I'm so sorry._

"Good to have you with us, Mr. Watson." Sherlock's father boomed after a few moments, before straightening his own jacket and heading for the door. "Shall we be off?"

John bit back a grimace at the other man, his hatred for him already strong. As he breezed out of the chalet, Sherlock's mother appeared and giggled rather nervously as she put a polite hand on John's shoulder, speaking to him conspiratorially.

"Mycroft is a terrible dolt! We were supposed to go on the boat trip today, but he had a fall, didn't he? Hit his poor face on the coffee table." She gave a sympathetic pout in her son's direction, who smiled rather tightly and continued out of the door. "Of course, we ended up not going.."

_She's still trying to keep their good name. Protecting a monster like that. I'm not sure if that makes her better or worse than him._

 

"Mother, do stop fussing over John." Sherlock interjected, returning in a new shirt and trousers. His mother smiled sweetly before following the other two out of the door. 

 

Sherlock gave John a long look, and John squeezed his hand before they joined them.

 

\--

 

John didn't think he'd felt this full in months, and he was only a quarter way through the main course. Of course, they'd been escorted to a table for five almost immediately, a waitress laying the napkin across his lap and placing a menu in his hands and John had been rather overwhelmed. Luckily, Sherlock had been on hand to make suggestions, and he'd blindly ordered with the family before scarfing down his mushroom starter in a matter of seconds.

Sherlock's mother had laughed, saying not unkindly that John was like a wild dog. He straightened at that, meeting Sherlock's eyes for a split second and blushing as he tried to eat more gracefully. Sherlock's father had been reminded though, and began to speak at length about the dangers of wild animals, his voice quietly demanding.  
"-standing in my own chalet when the beast just came at me. No provocation - no idea how the pest even got indoors" He shook his head, before posting a neatly cut parcel of steak into his mouth. "If you ask me, strays should be killed on sight. It's the kindest thing to do."

 

"Alf kicked him, and he ran away with his tail between his legs!" Sherlock's mother volunteered, laying a hand on her husband's arm as he nodded, still chewing. John gritted his teeth, but nodded politely as Sherlock glanced at him, alarmed.

 

_Of course that isn't what happened. I let him bloody run off. I could have had him if I wanted._

"Attacking animals, father." Sherlock added, his voice a daring drawl that made John rather nervous. "How very noble of you."

"I'm a hunter at heart, Sherlock." His father replied, eyes narrowing infinitesimally. "If I'd had my gun.."

"Plenty of time for that tonight, darling," Sherlock's mother reminded, smiling at her husband as she cut daintily at her meat. She looked up at John, explaining. "The men hunt rabbits on the last night - for tomorrow's meal, you see. And then we start back after lunch-"

"The sooner we get back to London, the better." Sherlock's father interrupted gruffly, holding up his hand to gesture for the waitress. As she approached, he ordered a double whiskey and the mood at the table became palpably tenser. Beneath the table, John moved his hand to grab at Sherlock's, his friend's fingers anxiously tapping on the edge of his seat.

"I thought you enjoyed it here, father." Mycroft asked, his tone slightly strained. He didn't look at the man, his eyes on his plate and Sherlock's father merely dabbed at his lips with a napkin before answering succinctly.

 

"Sea air doesn't agree with me."

"Will you be joining Alf and the boys tonight, John?" Sherlock's mother asked kindly, setting down her knife and fork. John smiled as if grateful and brought his fork to his mouth, hesitating to answer before he ate.

"No, I don't think so - but thanks, though. I'm sure it would have been quite-"

"And you, Sherlock?" Sherlock's father interrupted, gesturing towards his son with an errant flick of his napkin. "I suppose you're going to the blasted beach again, are you?"

Sherlock's face barely moved as he answered coolly, and John could sense that he was close to gritting his teeth.

"I like the beach."

 

" _Evidently._  Perhaps we shall buy you a sandpit when we get home."

 

An uncomfortable silence fell, and John was finishing his vegetables with just his fork, his other hand twining with Sherlock's beneath the tablecloth.

"So John," Sherlock's mother began again cheerily, as her plate was cleared by the  waitress. "What do your parents do?"

 

"My mum's a sous chef," He answered pleasantly, relieved for the break in the silence. Stuffed, he set down his fork and pulled his hand from Sherlock's grasp to rest it on the table, paranoid that his mother could sense the contact. "My dad.. hasn't really been around."

 

"A sous chef.." Sherlock's mother nodded, as if pleasantly surprised, though John could tell that she was trying hard not to judge him and his family income. Single parent. Single mother. Absent father. He didn't miss the look that Sherlock's father gave her, a rather pointed widening of the eyes. Doesn't our Sherlock bring the darnedest pets home?

John blushed beetroot red, and he could feel Sherlock stiffening beside him.

 

Before he knew what was happening, his friend had placed his hand atop John's own on the table, letting his thumb graze the backs of John's fingers in a clear show of affection. John froze, his eyes swivelling to Sherlock's in questioning panic. The look he received in turn was warm and loving - and quite clearly staged for maximum effect.

 

Turning his attention rather slowly back to Sherlock's parents, John noticed that all movement at the table seemed to have ceased completely. Sherlock's father's whiskey glass was held in mid air, his eyes narrowed on the pair and lips pursed into a flat line, whilst Sherlock's mother looked utterly perplexed, her eyes on the two boys' hands. Mycroft looked between them all tensely, until Sherlock's mother finally broke the awful silence with a question, her voice an octave higher than a moment ago.

"W-will you be coming to lunch with us tomorrow, John?"

John opened his mouth to reply a moment too late, Sherlock's father seeming to have returned to his senses and drinking the remainder of his whiskey in one fell swallow before he answered rather bluntly.

"I'm sure John has his own family to have lunch with."

The man met John's gaze and smiled politely, though it didn't reach his eyes - as cold as dead fish. John nearly shuddered just looking at them.

"I think we'll skip dessert." Sherlock announced coolly, tossing the napkin from his lap onto the table and rising smoothly, lacing his fingers with John's in the process. John grimaced internally, feeling the eyes of the family on him once again. "Have a nice evening, won't you all?"

John stood up too, nodding at Sherlock's parents and feeling almost a sympathetic gaze from his brother.  
"Thank you for having me." He squeaked, before clearing his throat and smiling embarrassedly, letting Sherlock lead him away.

"Thank God that's over." His friend muttered as they weaved their way through the tables and back to the banqueting hall entrance, John shaking his head and following with a rather shocked and exasperated chuckle.

"You're completely crazy."

 

\--


	11. Shoreline

"Was that really the best idea?" John asked, Sherlock's fingers still tight around his own as he led him back up the path to the beach.

 

"He was being rude to you, John. I didn't plan it.. rather spur of the moment.."

 

"You must have seen his face. They're putting a bloody gun in his hands tonight, Sherlock.. God I wish you hadn't done that.."

 

"Oh, please. Even more reason to have done it. He'll be out all evening and, with any luck he'll blast away a few rabbits to ease his anger."

"I can't say I envy the rabbits.. Not after that look he gave me. Christ."

 

They reached the top of the path, and Sherlock squeezed John's hand, the pair of them pausing to look over the recently set sun.  
"I think we're safe." Sherlock replied after a moment, a slight smile on his lips. "The team leader is the local Chief of Police. He and Father get on well, but somehow I don't think he'd be able to look past the murdering of his son and his boyfriend."

A thrill went through John's stomach at 'boyfriend', the corners of his mouth twitching as he turned away to hide his blush. Sherlock didn't seem to have noticed, and continued.

"He goes hunting every other weekend at home. It's rather a god send."

The pair walked down the sandbank, settling in their usual spot just beneath the reeds.  
"What do you mean?" John asked as he sat down, bringing his knees halfway to his chest.

"Well, he's out of the house for the whole weekend. And then I suppose he returns, rather more mellow than before."

"And how long does that last?" He asked quietly, his words bitter.

"A few days, perhaps."

"So that's why you dared to do that tonight - at the dinner table? Because he'll take his anger out on someone - something else."

  
Sherlock smiled a knowing smile and John shook his head just slightly. He should have realised that Sherlock would never endanger them so blatantly. 

 

"Ah - and Mycroft is going with him. Mother will be attending the evening entertainment..  
So for a while, the chalet's free-"  
"The chalet's free?" John realised, speaking at exactly the same time as his friend. Looking at each other, they both chuckled, and John felt a frisson of something run through his stomach at what the empty, and more comfortable chalet might hold. A real bed, for starters.. Warmth..Squeezing Sherlock's hand, a self-conscious smile graced his lips, and they both turned to look out at the sea.

 

A comfortable silence fell, and John began to draw in the sand with his fingers. The longer they went without speaking, the more the heavy weight between them became evident. They were determinedly not speaking about the fact that Sherlock would be going home tomorrow; that John would have no choice but to move along, unable to get meals from the hall without him. They'd be forced apart, and so soon..

When the quiet had finally become unbearable, John began with a meaningful "Sherlock..", looking over at his friend with anxious resignation in his eyes.

"Let's go swimming." Sherlock interrupted, the words bursting from his lips as an obviously desperate distraction. John frowned and opened his mouth to protest, but his friend was looking at him with a slightly wide-eyed grin, and John's meaningful conversation deflated on his lips.  
Sherlock seemed to take his sigh as agreement and jumped up, tearing off his shirt and fumbling with the buttons of his trousers, much to John's exasperated bemusement as he stood up too, trying to cover Sherlock's bare torso.  
"What are you doing?! It's.. freezing-"  
"That didn't stop you this morning Skinny dipping, John!"  
"But I wasn't really-" John protested, watching rather helplessly as Sherlock's trousers hit the sand and his friend stepped out of them, "I just had to change! That's why - why the blanket was there, I didn't have my-"

"Come  _on_ , John!" Sherlock interrupted, already turning to run towards the shoreline. He just wore his pants, pausing to tug off his socks on the way, laughing and gesturing fervently to John. With a disbelieving chuckle and a shake of his head, John was running after him, letting his brown jacket drop into the sand on the way. His clothes in a discarded trail down the beach, John was grinning as Sherlock shrieked, having dared to run straight into the waves. John looked up to catch a glimpse of his bare buttocks before they disappeared into the water, his friend's voice shrill as he called over. "It's freezing!"

John tore off his last sock with an amused "I did tell you!" before dashing into the sea behind him, tossing his pants back onto the sand with disregard. "Oh God - Christ it is!"

Both of them shivering and dancing about with half muted squeals, Sherlock eventually made his way over to John to pull him further into the icy waves, John laughing and protesting as he tried to push the other boy off. Sherlock clung on, John too getting soaked to the chest and sucking in a breath at the icy water, laughing as he splashed his friend in revenge.

 

The look that he received from Sherlock was one of both shocked outrage and mischief as the icy torrent hit his neck and chest, and he wholeheartedly flipped his hands in  the water to splash John in return. John was instantly reminded of the flour debacle earlier in the day as he retaliated, unable to control the laughter tearing itself from his chest as he turned to try and swim away. Within a few minutes, they were both soaked to the skin as they tread water, laughing breathlessly as they shivered and bobbed with the surge of each wave.

 

The dramatic battle having ended, Sherlock waded over to John, black curls plastered flat to his head as his arms found his friend's waist beneath the water. He pulled him close as they kissed, a mix of cold, wet lips and chattering teeth as John's fingers slipped into Sherlock's hair.   
"I w-wish w-we could.." Sherlock began morosely, his fingers trailing lower on John's abdomen. The water was so icy tonight that any arousal John could summon was instantly stolen by the cold.

He chuckled, his teeth still chattering rather hopelessly.   
"Y-yeah, sorry. They d-don't tell you about that b-bit in the f-films.."

 

Arms trembling as they held each other, John's eyes wandered to the view. The sun had set; just the pale remnant of the amber glow hovering at the horizon as the day turned to dusk. Turning back to Sherlock, he watched the other boy for a few moments, his lips wet and trembling and his skin freezing under John's fingers.

"C-come on," He said finally, chuckling as he turned to pull Sherlock along with him towards the shore. "T-this was your d-daftest idea yet."

 

The swim back was short, and it wasn't long until they were both walking on wet sand, John hurrying to find his pants and tug them on over his slick and trembling skin, swearing and laughing as he did so. A little further along, Sherlock was hunting for his own pair, and John tossed them over with a chuckle, before pausing to admire his friend's naked form, shining and wet.

 

"I'll just b-be a minute-" John called, before jogging up the sand bank, still in his pants. In his shivering rush, he was in and out of his chalet in only a few moments, running back down the beach with his pile of blankets and dumping them on the dry sand. Sherlock was gathering up their clothes in a messy pile as he jogged over, dropping them haphazardly to near dive on John, burying himself in the pile of blankets as they both shivered near violently, laughing at their own stupidity.

"D-definitely.. worst idea you- you've ever h-had.." John murmured amusedly, pulling his friend close beneath the blankets and closing his eyes as they mutually tried to garner back some warmth.

 

\--

 

Cold skin pressed together and their entwined bodies swaddled in blankets, it wasn't long before John and Sherlock began to dry, both of them shivering as they lay, looking up at the darkening blue of the evening sky. The minutes began to turn to hours, and they were watching the crescent moon make an appearance to cast an eerie glow over the flat calm of the sea. Noticing dotted stars, Sherlock hooked an arm around John's shoulders and began to point out constellations, whispering quietly in his friend's ear and delighting at the goosebumps that rose on his bare skin. John savoured the look of surprise on Sherlock's face when he himself pointed out a constellation that his friend had missed, feeling rather proud of himself.

 

After an hour or so, the pair began to speak again, their peaceful silence interrupted by the talk of things completely irrelevant to them; New York's Times Square, the uselessness of the Royal Mail and the time that John had cut open his finger in a woodworking lesson at school. Anything but the next day; their imminent separation sat between them like a third person, evenly threatening and frightening. When John's gaze grew anxious, Sherlock began to kiss him fervently, hands slipping beneath the blankets. John knew of course, that it was a rather underhanded distraction technique, but then he supposed he didn't mind. He wanted to speak about it even less than Sherlock did. John's fingers slid to his friend's bare torso, slipping down over his hip bone and trailing a  pattern to his groin as they kissed. He began to touch him subtly beneath the blankets, Sherlock closing his eyes as he lay beside him, the silence punctuated by his sweet sighs and the quiet press of their mouths together. Afterwards, John wiped his hand on the blanket with a mock disgusted noise, earning himself a smack on the shoulder before they were both chuckling, John kissing softly the top of Sherlock's head as his breathing calmed.

 

"I love you, John." came the rather unexpected sentiment, Sherlock's voice very quiet against John's chest. John hugged the blankets tighter around them and smiled just slightly.   
"I know. I knew the first time you tried to tell me, too."  
".. And you?"  
"Of course. I already told you that."  
"Well, do say it, don't keep me waiting."  
John chuckled. "I love you, Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, I love you. Do you want it in Latin too? Want me to go up there in a rocket, write it in the stars?"  
"Don't be ridiculous. That's entirely illogical." Sherlock nuzzled into John's neck, and he rolled his eyes.  
"Really? I was just about to go and fetch my moon shoes.."

Sherlock gave him another shove, and John was laughing, and then they were kissing again. Pulling back, each boy found the other's eyes with a fading smile, realising the fragility of their relationship and how soon it was destined to come to an end. Sherlock broke the look, as always, uncomfortable with the idea. Frowning, John rested his chin gently on his friend's head and looked up to the night sky, well and truly dark and glittering with stars. 

"John.."  
His friend's voice was tentative, and John raised his eyebrows, though neither of them moved.  
"What is it?"  
"I'm really very cold."  
"..You want to go inside?"  
"No."  
 _Then what are you telling me for?_ John wondered with a slight smile,  _I already knew that. I'm freezing too._  


"You know, you're rather warm.." Sherlock continued, and John sensed a pause.  
"..but?"  
"..But Dog is warmer.. You couldn't..?"  
John blinked, rather taken aback before he chuckled incredulously, kissing his friend's forehead.  
"Oh God, I feel like I'm fighting myself for your affections.."  
"It's merely a temperature issue," Sherlock protested, "We're both freezing. I wouldn't be surprised if we both contract hypothermia within the next-"  
"Alright, alright."  
"What?"  
"I'm doing it. Give me a minute."

 

\--

 

As Sherlock watched, John threw back the covers, his teeth beginning to chatter again in force. Planting himself on his  hands and knees, his friend closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath, Sherlock watching in awe. As he'd seen before - but this time, in reverse, John began to.. change.. into the animal; his fingers shrank back into his wrists and the crooks of his arms, his ears elongated, and his eyes began to fade steadily back to a deep brown. It was utterly awe-inspiring; even more so the second time. Within a few moments, he was completely covered in golden fur, long teeth visible as he smiled his doggy smile at Sherlock, tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth.

  
"Hello again," Sherlock chuckled, leaning over to rub the Retriever behind the ears, his exposed arm goosepimpling in the cold. John-the-dog shrank back from his touch and seemed to be chiding him as he moved forwards, nudging Sherlock's arm with his nose back inside the blankets. Circling where he stood, John settled down on the pile and rested his muzzle on his paws, feeling a thrill of warmth as Sherlock leaned over to wrap his arms around his neck.

John's fur was completely dry, and the heavy warmth of it meant that he was thankfully no longer cold. He shuffled closer to the freezing boy, as if willing Sherlock to share it too. 

"Thank you." Sherlock murmured quietly, eyes closing as he laid his head on the Retriever's back, fingers stroking idly where they rested in his fur. John-the-dog huffed once, leaning down to lick his friend's hand and receiving a rather disgusted chuckle for his efforts.

 

\--

 

After an hour, Sherlock was no longer shivering, and John-the-dog would have been fairly certain that the boy had fallen asleep if it wasn't for the steady combing of his fingers through his fur. Without taking into account the obvious communication difficulty, John had been near silent himself too, brown eyes fixed thoughtfully on the soft crash of the waves as he considered tomorrow. Where would he go? How would he find a place that had equipped him so well as this one? How would he.. cope.. without Sherlock? His first true friend in both forms. And more. Much more than a friend.

 

After a while, John-the-dog's legs had begun to ache and he was restless, having not had the chance to stretch or exercise in this form. He'd kept still for as long as possible, but now, a foot twitching occasionally, Sherlock was beginning to become aware of the problem.  
"What is it?" He asked, lifting his head and John-the-dog whimpered softly in response, patting his paws softly on the sand.

  
"Oh.. Do you want to go for a walk?"

  
John tilted his head to one side and gave Sherlock a pointed look, unsure whether the boy was mocking him in his current form.

_You taking the piss?_  


  
Sherlock yawned before catching sight of John-the-dog's expression and laughing, stretching as he sat up.  
"No! I wasn't teasing - I actually meant a walk.. walking. Oh, it doesn't matter. Let's go."

 John-the-dog got to his feet, stretching his back legs before half dancing around in a little circle and waiting for Sherlock to pull on his clothes and shoes, relieved just to be able to flex his body. 

 

Leaving the blankets behind, they began to walk back to the head of the beach, strolling idly along the shoreline. The moon was shining down on the dark water of the sea, reflecting each ripple of a coming wave, and even in his canine form, John-the-dog could appreciate the beauty of the night. As they walked, Sherlock's fingers hung just above John's back, and sometimes when he moved, he could feel them ghosting through the fur. Sherlock began to hum to himself, a quiet tune that John-the-dog couldn't place, but it was peaceful in the comfortable calm between them.

 

After ten minutes of slow walking, they reached the thick line of trees that signified the end of the private beach, and Sherlock sighed in what sounded like a weary relief.  
"Come on," He murmured, leaning down to stroke behind John-the-dog's ears. "Let's go back to the chalet. I can make us a cup of tea, if you like."  
But John whined lightly in his throat, not wanting to go home yet. He was enjoying the carefree walk and the exercise after being laid in one position for so long, and in this form, the idea of going inside was loathsome. After a few seconds of a shared stare, Sherlock relented, leaning down to rest his face down in John's fur.

"Alright then." He sighed, "But just for ten more minutes. I'm not sure this part is even in the resort."

 

The beginnings of grass beneath John-the-dog's paws were welcome, and soon he was padding around happily, taking off in front to explore the new terrain as Sherlock watched him, amused as he folded his arms across his chest. The moon continued to shine through the trees, and John-the-dog was admiring it all once more. His brown eyes came to rest on Sherlock again as he peeked back from behind a tree, wagging his tail. He admired the boy's wild curls, sprung back from their salt water wash and coated with a fine layer of sand in some places.

 

A sudden movement made John-the-dog jump, but it was just a bunny darting out from a brush of leaves, and he huffed rather embarrassedly, patting his muzzle with one paw as Sherlock chuckled at him.

 

John-the-dog heard, rather than saw the laughter fade from his friend's lips, and Sherlock was looking around them rather bemusedly, almost as if he recognised the smattering of forest. He gestured to John to 'stay' and John-the-dog resisted rolling his brown eyes, amused by his treatment as 'pet'. He watched curiously, wagging his tail every now and then as Sherlock reached the opening of the trees, looking back and forth at them as if trying to place the forest.

 

John-the-dog took a tentative step forward, one paw hesitating in the air as he watched, when there was a sudden noise from his right. 

 

A twig snapping underfoot.

 

Turning sharply, John nearly whimpered as he was faced with the cold eyes of Sherlock's father, his expression alight with an excitement so consuming it appeared almost as madness. His chest was heaving softly, and he held a long rifle that was aimed at the Retriever's body, John-the-dog utterly frozen still in the cross-hairs. His heart beat in his canine chest, fluttering hard like a trapped bird, and he still held one paw extended as if about to bolt.

_Sherlock. Sherlock - it's your father. Sherlock, help me._  


 

"Got you, mutt."

 

\--

 

It was rather astounding, Sherlock thought in hindsight, how two simple sounds could make such a change in a person's life. Two sounds, made in the same split second, that reached his ears with the same process as every other sound in the world. Every sound he'd heard before in his life; be it the steady stream of a hot running bath, or the crackle of bacon on an early Sunday morning. The wet slide of John Watson's lips against his own, or the sound that Dog's paws made on the wet sand when he ran to fetch the ball that Sherlock had thrown.

And yet two simple noises, terrible and simple, stood above the rest.

 

The cold realisation had slowly slipped into Sherlock's chest as he gazed up at the trees, having finally been able to place them as the picture on the front of his father's leaflet. Hunting leaflet. This weekend's hunting leaflet to be precise.

"John.." He began, a sense of danger beginning in his veins as his eyes snapped back to the glen before him; he could no longer see the Retriever, and they would need to get away from the area as soon as possible. Sherlock couldn't believe that he hadn't placed it sooner.  "John, we have to leave-"

He started forward, his stead heavy on the uneven terrain, but only made it a few steps before the two sounds came. The two sounds that seemed to tear him apart from the inside, send ice through his bloodstream and pull a choked gasp from his lips, the noise halfway between a scream and an inhalation of the word 'no'.

 

The first sound was a gun shot. Unmistakably a rifle, and so close that the crack of aftershocks resounded through the trees for a few moments afterwards - or perhaps that was simply in the haunted vortex of Sherlock's mind.

The second was more terrible, though it seemed to come at exactly the same moment as the first. 

 

Deep and piercing and achingly familiar, the sound spoke of pain and anguish, and Sherlock was running full pelt, his heart slamming into his ribs. The sound was a howl, a strangled, canine lament that seemed to rise above the trees and drift out onto the sand.  

 

\--

 

 


	12. Bittersweet

_I'm dead. I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm.. Oh, Christ that hurts-_  
  
His vision hazing as his involuntary howl tailed off into the night, John-the-dog found that he was on his side on the floor, twigs and leaves and general underbrush pressed against his muzzle. Pain was dotting along his exposed side in an array of excruciating jolts and throbs, each one taking his breath away in a quite terrible fashion. The dark sky behind the leafy expanse of the trees above was spinning wildly above him and a quite whine slipped from his muzzle as another stab of pain ran through his flank.  
  
 _But I'm alive. I'm alive. How am I still alive? Will he shoot me again? Will it be over in a matter of seconds-_

 

It was a split second later that the sound reached his ears, a mix between a pained gasp and an agonised groan - and it seemed to come from right beside him. Lifting his head from the ground as much as he could muster,  John could see the man's form lying beside him, the face turned just -   _Mycroft?_

  
Only a few seconds had passed since the crack of Sherlock's father's gun, and pandemonium quickly ensued. Men from the group were running towards them, shouting and calling for an ambulance, kneeling hurriedly beside Mycroft and checking his vital signs. John-the-dog could no longer hold up his head, and in fact the pain was becoming quite overwhelming.. He flopped his muzzle back down onto the undergrowth with a whimper, brown eyes closing weakly.

 

\--

 

"You shot your boy, Holmes?!"  
The incredulously angry yell reached Sherlock's ears as he burst into the clearing, having come from one of the men that were currently crowding something on the ground. Sherlock wasn't listening; his heart racing and a roar in his ears. Catching sight of a patch of golden fur, he was yelling and pushing through the band of hunters, his scrabbling hands forceful and panicked.  
"Let me through! Let me past! John.. Jo- Mycroft?"  
The sight of his brother, bloodied and pale as he lay, half sprawled beside the retriever was unexpected, and Sherlock was hit with a new spasm of panic that he hadn't expected.

"He leapt out in front of the gun, stupid boy!" came Sherlock's father's booming voice, just the hint of panic in his tone as he stayed motionless, gun held uselessly by his side. "I was going for the dog."

With several of his father's hunting friends already crowding Mycroft, and one on the phone seemingly to an emergency operator, Sherlock turned his attention to the Retriever, a shiver of fear and hopelessness running through him as he dropped down to his knees on the forest floor.  
"Dog.. Dog, please. Open your eyes," He pleaded, his voice cracking and weak as he ghosted his fingers over his friend's golden muzzle. His coat was matted with blood along one flank and partially on his stomach, and for a heartstopping moment, Sherlock believed that he was already too late. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper beside John-the-dog's folded ear. " _John_?"

 

"Son, he's as good as gone-" came the pitying voice of one of the men, glancing over from his brother's side.  
"Shut up!" Sherlock snapped, his face contorted in rage and fear. He leaned close again, resting his hands along the sides of John-the-dog's face and stroking his fingers softly through the fur. "Dog.. Please.. You can't. You can't. Please-"

At long last, John-the-dog gave a meek whimper, the sound both miraculous and frightening to Sherlock's ears.   
 _He's alive. He's alive. My John's alive. I haven't lost him, not yet._

  
"Call a vet!" He roared, turning his attention to the crowd of men who looked back at him dumbly. "Now, you idiots! A  _vet_!"

One of the men fumbled with his phone, seemingly hurrying to find a number and Sherlock turned his attention back to John-the-dog, leaning down to rest his arms protectively over his injured friend with a muted sob of his own. The Retriever gave another pained whimper and Sherlock was shushing him, soothing him with angry tears in his eyes.   
"Don't.. don't try to.." He swallowed, and a tear slipped past his eyelid and began to leave a track down the skin of his cheek. "I'm here. John, I'm here."

 

"Don't bother with the blasted animal," came the irritated voice of his father again, still standing dumbstruck in the same place, as if overseeing the aftermath of his attempted murder, "Your brother's lying there-"  
Sherlock was on his feet in a second, a rough hand brushing the wetness from his cheek as he stormed for his father, yelling and screaming and cursing the man to hell. His fists lashed out, beating the older man's chest, his face, any part of him that he could reach. His vision blurred from the furious tears that continued to well, Sherlock hit the man as he'd wished he could for years, not holding back and not fazed when his father attempted to grab at his wrists.  
"Stop - Stop it, Sherlock!"  
"You - murderer! You - Are you happy? Are you pleased, father?" He screamed, his voice fracturing and becoming hoarse mid word. One of the men seized his arms from behind and Sherlock was flailing, still trying his damnedest to hurt the man that seemed to relish taking so much from him.   
"Come on lad - come on - your brother's got an ambulance on the way-"  
"Let me go! Let me-"

Another voice interrupted the fray, this time one Sherlock recognised. It was the hunt leader - the local police chief - clapping a hand on his father's shoulder as he breathed hard, still looking incredulously at his attacking son and nursing a newly bruised side.

"Holmes. I'm sorry, we're going to have to take you in. I'm sure it can all be cleared up at the station, just, procedure, you know?"  
"I need to see that my son will be alright." Sherlock's father answered quietly, glancing over to Mycroft as if Sherlock didn't exist.  
"Steve says his vitals are good, and the ambulance will be two minutes. We've had James ring your wife, she'll meet him at the hospital.Come on mate, it's best we get this sorted now, isn't it?"  
His father cast a quick and reproving glance at Sherlock before nodding and turning, walking back to the beach with the Police Chief as if merely going for an evening stroll. It sickened Sherlock to the stomach.

 

"Get _off-_ "  
Sherlock finally released himself with a powerful shrug, darting back over to where the bloodied pair lay. His hands were immediately on John-the-dog's muzzle, stroking and checking for any change. He was still breathing, still emitting the weak whimpers and Sherlock sighed in relief, before snapping his gaze to the man that had been calling the vet.  
"And?"  
"We have to take him in but they're ready for him. We should wait until the ambulance-"  
"No," Sherlock snapped, already slipping a gentle arm under the Retriever's limp body, eliciting another worrisome whine. "He needs medical attention,  _obviously_  - are you an idiot? Help me."

The man hurried over, scooping John-the-dog into his arms as Sherlock watched helplessly, a tight grip on the man's arm as if warning him to be careful.  
"Start on the way. I'll catch up." He commanded, and the man pursed his lips as he headed back slowly towards the opening to the beach. "And hurry up about it!"  
Shaking his head, Sherlock knelt down beside his brother, the faint whir of sirens audible in the distance.  
"Mycroft?" He asked gently, the other men backing away to give them space. "Mycroft, can you hear me?"  
His brother's puffed hunting jacket was torn and bloody, his shirt open over pale, goosepimpled skin that was raw and broken in places. Sherlock had only heard one gunshot, and his simple deduction was mirrored by one of the men standing behind them.

"Bullet must have shattered when it hit the boy's gun. Got him and the dog. Poor mite."  
Sherlock rested the back of his hand on Mycroft's forehead, swallowing at the coolness of his skin. In the distance, a shout went up to announce the arrival of the ambulance, and the men were pulling him back out of the way.

With one last, regretful look at his brother, Sherlock was on his feet and heading back towards the beach, catching up with John-the-dog's bloody, golden body as he rested limply in the arms of the hunter.  
"I'm here.." Sherlock assured, breathless from the run.   
"Alright, good-" The man answered and Sherlock shot him a withering look.   
"Not  _you_." His eyes found John-the-dog's soft muzzle and he whimpered again, sending another shiver of fear through Sherlock.  
"I'm here, John.. Dog.. I won't leave you again. Not again. Not for a moment. I promise, please.. Stay with me, will you?"

 

\--

 

When John-the-dog awoke, he was firstly aware of the cold surface under his fur, and secondly the terrible aches running through his right side. Blinking himself into the bright room, a short whine left his muzzle and he became aware of a strapping around his paw, keeping the needle of an I.V in place. His mind was hazy, and the pain was duller than he remembered - probably a consequence of whatever was being fed into his body.  
At the sound, Sherlock turned from the doorway, in the process of putting on a coat.  
"John? John, you're awake-" He dashed over, running a hand gently over the fur on John's head and stroking between his ears. John-the-dog halfheartedly gave his tail a wag, but couldn't quite keep it up for long enough to show his true enthusiasm. Sherlock leaned down to rest his chin gently on the Retriever's head, an arm hugging him close as carefully as possible.  
"You're at the vets. Emergency vet. It's around 1.30 in the morning."

Sherlock looked tired, John-the-dog had noted. Like he'd been awake for weeks, and seen terrible things. He looked how a war veteran or an on-call nights doctor might look - not an eighteen year old boy. Not John's Sherlock. Even when his father had given him a going over, he hadn't looked this.. overwrought. When his friend finally released him, John-the-dog noticed the cracking of Sherlock's haunted voice as he spoke, and it made him unhappy.  
"I'm so.. I'm so sorry, John. This is all my fault. All my fault.. I should have realised - should have known that the forest was the same from the leaflet. I'm an idiot, a terrible.. I don't deserve-"  
John-the-dog gave a weak bark to shut him up, the effort of which sent a wracking ache through his side. Whimpering, he laid down his head on the metal table and Sherlock leaned forward to hug him close again, worry etching itself on his weary face.  
"Alright. Alright."  He paused, and stroked his fingers through the Retriever's fur. "But I am. Sorry, I mean. I truly am, John."

A comfortable silence fell, and John-the-dog was drowsy again, though the last thing he wanted was to sleep. Sherlock's voice was quiet when he spoke, reassuring this time.  
"You took some shrapnel in your shoulder. And.. here." He gestured, hovering his fingers over the dog's flank, "But I think they managed to remove it all. They're keeping you in tonight." Sherlock swallowed, leaning a little closer. "Can.. can you change?"

John-the-dog shook his head with all the energy he could muster, not able to recall feeling so weak. It would be near impossible to change in this state, at least until he felt less drowsy. At the moment, he could barely focus on one thing long enough, his thoughts hazing into a sleepy mess.  
"Mycroft's in a bad way." Sherlock nodded with a concerned frown and continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I was.. you were still asleep.. I was going to go to the hospital. It's only twenty minutes from here."

John-the-dog made a small sound, the strangled beginning of a quiet howl as if to say that he understood. His brown eyes swivelled to settle on Sherlock, though the boy was obviously hesitant.  
"But.. but you're awake now, John. I need to stay with you. I have to stay."  
John yawned rather pointedly, though the effort of doing so was draining. Still, he managed to summon a small smile from Sherlock, who sighed and leaned down to hug John-the-dog close again, barely daring to touch his battered body.

"I'll be very fast. I won't stay for long, just.. check in. And then I'll come back. I'll sleep on the floor beside you, if I have to."

John-the-dog ducked his chin once, the appropriation of a nod as his eyes slid closed, taken under by whatever drugs were being fed into his paw. Sherlock leaned in to press his face between the Retriever's ears, inhaling softly and pressing a kiss before he stood up, still glancing back reluctantly as he headed for the door. John-the-dog had already been swallowed into a dreamless sleep.

 

\--

 

By the time Sherlock reached the hospital, he was already anxious about leaving John, having remained with him for the three hours that he'd been unconscious. But if he just stayed for ten minutes, he reasoned with himself, then he could go right back. Keep them from locking him in some godforsaken animal cage overnight.. Perhaps take him back to the chalet, if he could be moved.

 

He'd stopped at the reception desk to find his brother's ward, and was getting increasingly frustrated at the endless corridors and staircases by the time he finally swept onto the ward, rubbing his hands with the disinfectant as he went. Sherlock spotted Mycroft right away, his brother's face pale and drawn but peaceful in sleep as he rested in the hospital bed, connected to an array of wires and machines. His mother sat beside Mycroft's bed, clutching her handbag on her knee and still wearing her outfit from the evening's dinner, the dress quite out of place in the ward. She'd hastily thrown an overcoat over it, and hugged it closer to her as Sherlock entered, standing to greet him. He paced over to the bed and took Mycroft's chart, trying to judge what the doctors had said.  
"He has a punctured lung - but it's small. The doctors say it might heal on its own and they.. they should know by the morning if they're going to try anything else. Cuts and bruises too.." Sherlock's mother explained quietly, her eyes fixed worriedly on Mycroft's sleeping face. He wore an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, and Sherlock was shaking his head, utterly disgusted by all of this.  
"And a broken rib. They removed the rest of the bullet.. Oh, Mycroft.." She sighed, bringing her fingers to her lips in anxious dismay.

 

"He already  _had_ a broken rib." Sherlock snapped, placing the chart back at the end of his brother's bed with a clatter. Walking to Mycroft's bedside, he looked down at the man and shook his head infinitesimally, before tentatively resting a hand on his shoulder. He wore a hospital gown, and other bruises his father had inflicted were visible, one flowering along his collarbone.  
"Get better, brother." He murmured, and waited for a moment before turning back to mother.

 

"I want to speak in the hall."

 

His mother followed him somewhat wearily into the corridor, Sherlock rounding on her as soon as she softly shut the ward double doors.  
"This is our chance, mother." He began rather animatedly, his voice fervent. "If Mycroft chooses to press charges, we can have him sent away."  
"Sherlock.." Mother sighed, running a hand across her brow but Sherlock continued.  
"If we three testify - I've still got my bruises, as does Mycroft, and I know for a fact that you must have scars." She pursed her lips and turned away, and Sherlock blinked impatiently, shifting from  one foot to the other as he persevered. "He won't have a chance, mother. Not with all of us. In fact - I'd imagine this could even be taken as attempted murder-"

"Enough, Sherlock."  
His mother held up a hand, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as if daring her to refuse the idea.  
"I've got quite enough on my plate, don't you think? Your brother needs me-"  
"He needs you to stop  _endangering_  yourself - endangering us all."  
"Must we talk about this now?"  
"Must we?  _Must we?_ Mother - he shot Mycroft. He shot his son - your son. He shot him."  
"Now, I know that isn't the truth Sherlock - he was aiming for-"  
 _"It doesn't matter who he was aiming for._ " Sherlock hissed, leaning closer and clenching his fists by his sides in defiance. "Mycroft is in there right now,  _dying-_ "  
"He's stable, they say. He isn't dying-"  
"He so easily could have died." Sherlock scoffed, mimicking a gun with two fingers. "A slight angle change, a mere few degrees to-"  
"Stop it! Stop it, Sherlock. Just stop!" His mother was shaking her hands, her voice shrill and bursting out of her, one tendril of hair falling from her elegant hairdo and fluttering before her face. "I won't hear of this! Not tonight, not now. Just stop it, will you?"

Sherlock took a step back and straightened his coat, mouth turning down in a disgusted grimace.

"Quite the mother you are." He said coldly, before turning on his heel and leaving the ward, hating how utterly damaging his father's loose fists had turned out to be.

 

\--

 

When he reached the Veterinary Surgery again, Sherlock was yawning - it was quarter past two in the morning and the rollercoaster of events and emotions that had taken place that evening were beginning to catch up with him. But still, he was pleased to be back where he belonged - at John's side, whichever form that happened to be. Just being apart had opened up an entirely new anxiety inside of him that could not be quelled, and as he let himself inside and walked straight through to the first consulting room, he was awaiting the wash of relief - that did not come.

 

Blinking rather surprisedly at the empty metal table, Sherlock's heart began to beat a little faster, suddenly fearing the worst.  
"You," He called at the passing vet, the young woman he'd spoken to earlier when John-the-dog was asleep, pausing with her clipboard, 

"Where's J-.. my dog? The Golden Retriever that was in this room. He was here only forty five minutes ago."  
The vet's expression fell slightly, and Sherlock was widening his eyes in disbelief, his heart dropping into his stomach.  
"I'm so sorry," She began, and Sherlock was shaking his head vehemently, not wanting to believe what he was sure she was about to say. "There was nothing I could do-"  
"No. Don't say that-"  
"They had the right documents."

"..What?"

Sherlock's brow crinkled in his bemusement, his pounding heart fluttering with a shred of hope for a single moment.  
"The policemen. They said that a claim's been put in about a dog attack, and if he was well enough he was to be taken to the station. I expect they'll board him in one of their own sniffer dog kennels.."  
Sherlock didn't answer, his mouth dropping open just slightly as he clenched his fists by his sides.  _Father._  
The vet continued, her expression apologetic.  
"I'm sorry - I had to let him go. He came off the drip just after you left, and he's well bandaged. I couldn't say that he wasn't well enough-"  
"I don't understand," The words burst out of Sherlock in an incredulous shout, his brows pulling together in angry confusion, "What on Earth would be gained from taking him to the police station, of all places?"

 

 

"Oh, I'm sorry.. I thought.. I thought that you knew.." The vet fiddled with the pen on her clipboard, her expression truly sympathetic. "They'll have to determine whether to.. put him down."

"P..put.."

"Put him to sleep." Her voice softened slightly and stepped forward, resting a chaste hand on the young man's shoulder - a poor attempt at comfort.  
"..Permanently."

 

 

\--

 


	13. Inhumane

John-the-dog breathed a huff of a sigh, laying down with his paws beneath his chin and whimpering through the contraption around his muzzle. He had been too weak to struggle when the policemen had originally fastened it onto him at the vets, and now, in his wooden crate, it was becoming quite the hindrance.  
  
 _How will Sherlock find out where I am? What do they want with me here? I don't understand. I just want to go to bed and sleep for a bloody month. But not here. God, this crate stinks._

His impromptu prison was fronted by a thin metal grate with a lock, and he looked out at the dark courtyard of the police station with morose brown eyes. No sooner had the Retriever's gaze settled on the back door of the station, it opened, an officer walking over briskly to unlock his crate.  
"Back! Get back!" He called gruffly, and John-the-dog scrabbled back to the end of the crate, wincing mutely at the pain that shot through his flank. Within moments, the officer had some sort of thick lead attached to his muzzle and was tugging John-the-dog from the cage, much to the protest of his injured body. After a yelp, the man paused uncertainly, before continuing up to the back door of the station.

"David! Got him."  
He called, and the back door opened to reveal - Sherlock's father. Sherlock's father and a man that John-the-dog was sure had been there when he was laying injured. An involuntary growl slipped from the Retriever's muzzle, and his hackles were raised as brown eyes found his offender, the loathsome, brute of a man that was Sherlock's dad.

 

"You see, Dave?" He announced, voice typically surly. "I told you he was a vicious brute. Look at him! He's ready to go for me again."  
The police chief was shaking his head, lips pursed as he looked down at the Retriever, and his handler gave him a jolt that pulled on his muzzle and shut him up almost immediately. Sherlock's father continued, looking down at John with an expression akin to kindness on his face.  
"I'm just doing my duty as a man, here. As a father. I can't have some feral thing like this running around, especially not at a resort like that."  
"You've got a point.."  
"Look at this." Sherlock's father pulled up his trouser leg to show a line of deep scratches, and John-the-dog's brown eyes settled on them, incredulous and angered. He began to growl again, unable to believe what he was seeing, and his handler gave him another vicious tug.  
"Tore right into the skin, he did. This was from the other day. I can't bear to think what might have happened if he got near my Susan, or one of the boys."

 

_That wasn't me. Those aren't even dog scratches.. You bastard. You great, terrible lying bastard. I bet they're from Sherlock's mother, trying to defend herself before you kicked her in the side. Or Mycroft, or even Sherlock. You lying-_

 

John barked once, a sharp sound of defiance that tailed into a growl and had him pulling at the lead.

"Well, he certainly doesn't seem to like you, Holmes.."  
"I was just doing my civic duty, Dave. If my boy hadn't gotten in the way.." He sighed regretfully and ran a hand over his chin, and the police chief clapped a hand on his shoulder with a comforting smile.  
"Say - wasn't it your boy that nearly knocked himself out yesterday morning? Gave himself that socking great black eye?"  
"That's Mycroft all over. David, he's always been the clumsiest of the two boys - I'm surprised he's lasted this long."

"Well, I wouldn't worry. We'll soon have this mess sorted out. Susan's at the hospital?"

John-the-dog barked again, a desperately angry sound that came out muffled from the contraption over his muzzle and both men looked over at him as if perturbed.   
"Put him back in the cage, Len. We'll have the vet come."  
"To put him down?" Sherlock's father sounded hopeful, and John-the-dog's anger faded with a whimper, his head ducking down between his shoulders in terrible realisation.  _Put me.. put me down? You can't- I'm not.. this isn't me! I'm a person. I'm.._  
"Well, it's no life for an angry mutt. Locked up in the courtyard. No, he's dangerous."

  
_I'm innocent!_

"Yeah, we'll call one of them now. No time like the present, and if we catch the emergency lot, he won't have to wait until morning. Then we have to pay them a breakfast fee! Get him outside, Len."

John sat down hurriedly, dragging his paws along the floor as the handler tried to lead him back outside. The lead was cutting into his throat, the sharp tugs sending spasms of pain through his injured side, and still he whimpered, looking back with pleading eyes at the police chief. The man didn't even look back, and within a few rough seconds, the Retriever's handler had shoved him back in his prison, John scratching and scrabbling at the stiff bars.

 

  
_Oh, hell. Oh, Jesus. Sherlock- Sherlock, please - They're going to put me to sleep-_

His protest came in the sound of a pitiful howl that barely made it past the muzzle contraption, and John-the-dog was pacing in the crate, his heart racing and his side aching terribly.

 

When he finally quietened, he realised he could still hear the two men speaking behind the door.

 

"I'm sorry I can't let you go back to the resort, Alf-"  
"Don't be daft, Dave. I know the way of things. I expect the plushest cell, though."  
The other man laughed, "You know I hate this. Just procedure. I'm sure a few words with your boy in the morning will sort it all out."  
"I'm just glad you sorted out the mutt. Just give me the five star treatment and I'll be happy."  
"You don't ask much, do you?"

 

As the laughing voices faded, John-the-dog gave another pitiful whimper and wished quite fervently that he  _had_ taken a chunk out of the bastard's leg when he'd had the chance.

 

_They're going to kill me._

\--

 

 

When Sherlock finally arrived at the station, it was half past three in the morning and he was going out of his mind with worry. Suppose the chief decided to have the Retriever offed? And if so, why wait? Could he be arriving to find his friend's lifeless, golden body, brown eyes still and grey?

The thought had haunted him, sending ice through his veins as he'd run through the town, coat buffeting out behind him. No cabs or buses were running at this time, and he gasped gusts of icy fog into the night sky as he jogged, his heart beating in unsteady panic.

 

Sherlock slammed into the wall of the station building, hands bracing him as he breathed hard and peeked around the bricks. Through the glass doors, he could see the woman sitting at reception - a police officer. She spoke on the phone, one hand curled around a coffee mug and Sherlock was for a moment wondering how he could get past her, until it hit him that of course, they wouldn't keep a dog inside. 

 

Hands resting on the brick, he followed the wall around the building, cursing lightly when he came to a high fence topped with barbed wire.  
 _But John needs me. I daresay I owe him this; a thousand times more than this, perhaps. After all, this is all my fault._  


_If he hadn't met me.._

_His death will be on my conscience._

 

Slipping his coat from his shoulders, Sherlock was shivering in the cool evening air as he tossed it atop the fence to cover the barbs. He rubbed his icy hands together before beginning his climb, being careful not to rest against the coat as he reached the top with tremendous effort. The muscles in his arms trembling, Sherlock had to hope for the best, essentially slinging himself over the lumped coat with its concealed danger, landing hard on his feet and rolling to one side.

 

The fall knocked all the air out of him and he groaned quietly, landing heavily on his fading bruises, but he didn't dwell on it for long. Looking to the side, he noticed the long crate and pulled himself up, staggering around to the front to look inside.

 

Spotting him immediately, John-the-dog stood with a whimper, wagging his tail hard and pressing his wet nose to the thin band of the grate. He wore some kind of hard plastic cover over his muzzle, and it sickened Sherlock to the stomach.

  
_He's stronger than before. At least a little. That's something. That's a start._  
"Dog.." Sherlock whispered, lacing his fingers into the grate. "..John.." He swallowed, frowning as his brows pulled together, this situation so terribly wrong.  
"They said that they might.. that they'll put you to sleep."  
The Retriever gave a light whimper, one paw scratching desperately at the grate of the cage, and Sherlock twined his fingers through the thin bars more firmly.  
"Don't.. I know.. I won't - Of course I won't let that happen."  
Blinking, Sherlock shook his head, trying to make some sense out of this, to figure it out. The grate had a thick padlock, and it was almost guaranteed that the key would not be anywhere easily accessible.  
"Is my father here?" He asked distractedly, eyes searching John-the-dog's brown ones, which seemed to harden at the question, a growl slipping from his restrained muzzle. Only a moment later, the Retriever was whimpering, sliding down to rest on his belly as if the effort of staying upright was hurting him.

"I know.." Sherlock whispered again, though of course he didn't know, didn't know how John could possibly feel. Only that he mirrored his friend's raging hatred of his own father, and could anxiously sympathise with his injuries. "Did.. did you see him?"  
His head laid on his paws, John-the-dog blinked once, slowly and his eyes were morose. It was the equivalent to a nod, and Sherlock was nodding himself, understanding.

 

"I'm so.. I'm so sorry. This is all my-"

Dog made a sound that was halfway between a growl and a whimper to shut him up, and Sherlock swallowed the rest of his sentence, trying hard not to bask in his anguish.

Slipping his other hand into the bars as well, Sherlock was on his knees as he spoke through the grate, his tone quiet and pleading.  
"I'm going to go inside. I have to try and find the key, find something to get you out, alright?"

John-the-dog's ears twitched, his brown eyes settling rather anxiously on Sherlock as he spoke. He looked utterly forlorn with the contraption around his nose, and Sherlock hated whoever had put it onto him. Inhumane.

  
"I need you to try and change, John. If worst comes to worst.. I don't know how we'll explain, but they can't hurt you if you're  _you._ "

Dog whined again, the noise a quiet pain in Sherlock's chest as the Retriever's eyes fluttered shut in protest.

"I know." Sherlock repeated again, fingers stroking at the bars as if he was stroking John-the-dog's golden fur, "I know you're weak. I know it hurts. But please, John - Dog - for me. I can't.. I need you." He swallowed. "I'm saying it. I confess. I need you."

John-the-dog shuffled closer on his belly, his paws scratching at the very bottom of the cage door. Sherlock let his fingers touch just the slightest trace of the golden fur, and Dog leaned down, licking Sherlock's finger with a dry tongue through his caged muzzle.

"I'll be back as soon as I can." Sherlock whispered, reluctantly moving back from the grate and getting to his feet. "Please.. try."

 

He met the brown eyes with a pleading gaze before turning, and slipping as quietly as he could through the heavy back door of the station.

 

\--

 

Inside, Sherlock was shut into warm silence as soon as the door closed behind him and his panicked anguish quickly began to turn to anger, bubbling and turning in his stomach. 

At the end of a wide corridor, the only visible door was to his left, and he found it rather disappointedly to be some sort of changing room with lockers. The key was almost definitely not to be in there, but he swiped a pair of black trousers anyway, deciding that if - as a last resort - John could change back, he'd need something to wear.

 

Folding them, he held them in one hand as he walked back up the corridor and found himself faced with the reception desk. Cursing, Sherlock slipped back behind the wall to decide his next move. The desk was the only way forward - each corridor led off from the central foyer area, and as he watched, the woman moved just slightly to reveal a slim row of keys.  
 _That's where it'll be._

Just as he was poised to walk out, someone else entered the reception area - a man wearing a scarf, fairly tall, bags under his eyes and a large brown bag in one hand.   
"Hello, sorry - Alan Manford.." Sherlock listened as he introduced himself to the police woman, his heart beginning to pound at his next words. ".. Emergency veterinarian."

"Oh right - you're here for Dave's Retriever. He's out back-"

"Is there somewhere I can set up?"

The woman pointed Alan Manford to a room off the side, handed him something and he smiled gratefully, heading into there with his great, brown bag of death. Sherlock's teeth were gritted, a panic pounding in his veins. He had minutes - only minutes to do this.

 

Dropping to his knees, he crawled out to the desk, just in his shirt and trousers now that his coat had been used as barb cover. Reaching the front of the desk, he waited, counting the seconds. He cursed the woman as he listened to her, wondering why on Earth she took so long to take a damn - 

As soon as the noise came; the tell-tale spin of her chair as she turned to check the cell cameras, Sherlock stood up as quickly as he could, essentially popping into view and plastering a false smile on his face.

"Oh - Jesus!"  
She exclaimed when she turned back around to see him, looking rather displeased as she slopped coffee onto her desk.

"Can I help you with something, sir?" The police woman's voice was disgruntled, but Sherlock continued to smile sweetly.  
"My father's in Cell four. I need to speak with him."

The woman gave one half bark of a laugh, shaking her head.  
"We don't do 'visiting hours'. And if we did, you would have missed them."  
"His son is gravely ill in hospital, and you won't allow me to relay his progress?"

She seemed to relent slightly at that, smug smile falling from her lips as she straightened and dabbed at the spilled coffee with a tissue.  
"Holmes, then. I can.." She shrugged, seemingly feeling rather rude. "..Relay the message?"  
"Please do."  
"..And that is?"  
"He's stable for the moment. The Doctors will reassess his condition in the morning for further treatment."  
The woman stood up, taking a set of keys from the hook.  
"And who can I say is providing this message?"  
"Sherlock. Oh yes,  _do_  say Sherlock sends his regards."  
He smiled again, though was moments away from tearing the keys from the hook and heading back through to John, desperately short of time.

"Well, alright. Take a seat, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, turning to make for the row of three plastic chairs by the double doors. As soon as the woman had disappeared down the corridor for the cells, though, he bolted for the desk, eyes roaming the line of keys frantically and fingers measuring each one for the fit of Dog's cage.

_Gone._   


It was gone.

With a thrill of fear, Sherlock remembered the receptionist handing Alan Manford something as he headed into the side room to prepare. Of course, it would have been the key to the doomed animal's cage.  _Of course. Idiot. I'm an utter idiot._

His heart pounding, Sherlock was quickly running out of ideas and acted on impulse. With trembling fingers, he snatched the labelled key for the 'Evidence Bank' and headed down the last remaining corridor. Hurriedly unlocking his way into the door on his right, he paused for a moment, blinking at the rather astonishing array of white boxes and organised, labelled hooks that ran the length of the clinical room. Catching himself, Sherlock cursed himself and tried to force his mind to focus, to look for anything that could help them.

 

And then he found it.

 

The thick mallet was laying along one wall, beside a rather impressive array of shotguns and bizarre weaponry - a crossbow and a sharp spear among them. Without thinking, he wrapped both hands around the end of it and began to run, pausing only to lock the door behind him. Dashing back through reception, Sherlock was relieved to find that the woman wasn't back yet, and replaced the key with shaking fingers.

"I'm about ready." came the call of Alan Manford from the room opposite and Sherlock froze, halfway back to John. Hurrying back into reception for a moment, he discarded the mallet and pulled shut the vet's door, a muffled 'hey-' the only protest. The lock was on the outside, and Sherlock thanked the heavens that Manford had chosen to use an interrogation room.

 

Snatching up the mallet, he ran at a breakneck pace back to the outside door, bursting into the cool air to see Dog on his side in his crate, whimpering and shaking.  
 _He's trying to change._

Closing the door hurriedly behind him, Sherlock dropped to his knees beside the cage, the mallet and trousers discarded on the ground. Weaving his fingers into the grate, he watched anxiously as John-the-dog emitted a near howl, the sound weak and muffled from behind the plastic constriction.   
"Dog - John -" Sherlock whispered, his voice fervent and helpless as he got as close as he could. "I'm here. I'm here, John."

 

Frenzied whimpers were slipping from the Retriever's muzzle, his paws twitching uncontrollably and Sherlock was aware that at any moment the police officers could come out, could be alerted to the vet's entrapment or the stolen mallet, or Sherlock's deception. Even the sounds that his friend was making were rather loud, and he kept a look out anxiously - until he heard a groaning gasp.

"John!"  
Turning back around hurriedly, Sherlock was faced with a shivering John Watson, pale and bloodied. It was rather evident after a few moments that his stitches had torn, though the change seemed to have half healed him. The plastic contraption had snapped mid change, and John was gingerly running his fingers over his lips with a trembling hand.

"Get back!" Sherlock commanded, scrambling to his feet as he suddenly remembered the gravity of their situation, and noticing his friend rather uncouthly pressed against the metal grate. Lifting the mallet, he waited until John had pushed himself to one side before swinging down the hammer, the wood splintering under the impact. Two more heavy swings, and two more grunts from Sherlock were all it took - the wooden plinths caved in, and Sherlock dropped the mallet, launching himself at the crate to throw his arms around his friend.

"Sh-Sherlock-" John protested, his voice hoarse and weak. "The tr-rousers-"

"Oh, right."

Releasing John gently, Sherlock hurriedly tossed the trousers at him, the other boy shivering and covering himself with his hands as he crouched in the remnants of the shattered crate.

 

 

\--

 

Relieved and exhausted, John was running on empty as he clumsily pulled the black trousers on, shivering in the cool night air. The moment he'd buttoned them, Sherlock was pulling him by the arm to the fence, where his coat was thrown over the top of the barbed wire.

"Come on, John-" He began, but John stopped, shaking his head weakly and fixing a cold hand to the wound on his side, still bleeding steadily. 

"Sherlock, I.. I can't.. I'm b-barely.. walking-"

Sherlock stopped for a split second to turn to John, his eyes searching his friend's face as the other boy practically swayed on the spot, his teeth chattering from the cold. One beat was all it took, and then Sherlock was grabbing at the coat, pulling it down and throwing it around John's shoulders.

"This way."  
He ordered, slipping an arm around John's waist as they reached the back door. John swallowed, his voice meek.

"W-we can't just- They'll s-see us.."

"For once, will you do as I ask? Perhaps you should have stayed as a Retriever.."

John gave his friend a weak punch to the side, and Sherlock kissed the top of his head in return, before continuing in a hushed, affectionate tone.  
"Go. Please. It'll be alright, I promise. Trust me."

_I owe you my life. I guess we're even._

Buttoning Sherlock's coat over his bare chest, John nodded, letting his friend pull open the door and help him inside. They were shut into a long corridor, but John was immediately savouring the warmth, a relieved sigh rather involuntarily escaping his lips. Sherlock was hurrying him down the hall, and soon they came into a bright foyer with a heavily cluttered desk and some waiting chairs. 

  
"Quick-" 

Sherlock began, pushing him for the double doors, but an authoritative voice reached them before they made it there.

 

"Excuse me."  
Turning, Sherlock noticed the rather confused expression of Alan Manford, his brown bag of death clutched in his hand again and clearly quite perturbed about having to find his way out of the interrogation room. Sherlock expected there was a release lock somewhere inside.  
"Do you know where they'd keep the animals in here? I'm a veterinarian. I'm here to see to a-"

"Outside." Sherlock replied with as courteous a false smile as he could manage, one arm around John's shoulders still keeping the other boy upright as he swayed on his feet. 

 

"Ah, thank you!"

The man set off down the corridor and Sherlock turned again, just as the voice of the police woman echoed throughout the foyer. Turning back around, Sherlock cursed their bad luck, fingers tapping anxiously on John's shoulder.

"I - who's that?"  
Sherlock sighed, plastering the same smile back on his face.   
"This is my friend, John. Say hello, John."  
John did not say hello, but raised one hand in greeting, accompanied by a rather meek smile. It was all that he could manage, and subtly pressed his hand to his bleeding side once more.

The police woman nodded, bemused before shaking her head.

"I passed on the message to your father."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, rather tired of this now. He began to herd John out of the door and the woman stood, leaning over the desk to shout after them. "Wait! He said-"

"I don't care what my father said!" Sherlock spat rather incredulously, glancing back once at the woman's shocked expression before beginning to run, near holding John up as they went.

 

John too took one last glance - just in time to see Alan Manford reappear looking quite flustered behind the glass, the police woman standing slowly from the desk as he seemingly recounted the state of the courtyard cage.

"I love you-" John gasped as they ran, a relieved and exasperated chuckle finding its way from his hoarse throat. Sherlock hugged him closer, his own voice cracking now that they were away from their adversaries.

"Ob..- Obviously."

 

 

\--

 


	14. Crescendo

When John and Sherlock reached the rundown chalet at long last, Sherlock was nearly carrying his friend. John shivered in Sherlock's jacket, the long trousers trailing in the sand as they hurried towards the dilapidated shack, Sherlock slamming the door shut upon their arrival and peering out of the window. He sighed when he realised that John's blankets were still outside, and within moments had dashed back out and returned with them, setting them carefully around his friend.  
  
"Th-there's no one at your place," John observed, letting himself be covered in the mounds of sandy fabric, before Sherlock headed back to the window, keeping a look out. "Wh-why can't we-"  
  
"We were the only two at the station, and the dog was very clearly broken out with the mallet. They'll come looking for us."

 

 

John frowned and nodded, willing himself to get warm. His blood continued to trickle onto Sherlock's coat, and after a few moments the other boy returned from the window and hunted around for John's first aid kit.

"Don't worry," He said, upon seeing John's worried expression as he took out the surgical thread and needle, "I've done Mycroft's stitches before. My mother's too, come to that."

John nodded and dropped the blanket, allowing his friend to undo the buttons of his coat to reveal his bloodied side, his skin goosepimpling in the cool air.

"It's not as bad as I thought." Sherlock remarked, leaning onto his knees to begin his first stitch, "You must have healed whilst changing."

"M-maybe that explains why it hurt more than usual." John replied, his teeth chattering.

"It usually hurts?"

"A bit. More like an ache."

The stitches were done in a matter of moments, John reaching out to rest his fingers on Sherlock's arm as he turned away to put the things back into the box.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."  
 

His friend looked perplexed, his eyebrows pulling together beneath dark curls.   
"What for?"

"I've been nothing but trouble for you. If you hadn't met me-"

"My father would have beat me to a pulp a few days ago." Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, his eyes cool and yet determined on John's. "I would have been forced to spend my week with him, rather than with you on the beach."

"But Mycroft-"

"-is going to be  _fine_." Sherlock interrupted. He dropped the thread and turned back to John, cupping his face between cold, long-fingered hands. "John, you haven't done anything wrong." His gaze softened slightly, and John swallowed, raising his fingers to rest gently around Sherlock's wrists. "My father is the only one at fault here. You.. You and I.. We.."

He seemed to be struggling for words, and so John leaned forwards to kiss him, the movement soft and reassuring.  
"Alright." He said simply, afterwards. "But what about-"

"If you ask me what happens when I leave  _once_  more, I'll hurt you myself."  
Sherlock murmured, shuffling to lay beside John in the blankets and pull him close. John chuckled weakly and closed his eyes, though the silence that fell between them spoke of all the things that they were not saying. Eventually, Sherlock spoke again, more softly this time.

 

"I imagine we'll have to stay for another day or so. Wait to see if Mycroft can be transferred or even released. And father." He grimaced, and John squeezed his hand. He continued, his tone bitter.

"Mother won't press charges. Neither will Mycroft, if she won't support it."

 

John shook his head, anger welling in his chest again as he thought of the man at the police station, eager to get John-the-dog killed. And the excitement on his face when he had been the one holding the gun. His fists, laying into Sherlock..

"He'll get his comeuppance one day." John muttered with confidence, but Sherlock shook his head, words quiet and resentful.

"That isn't how the world works. Not in my father's circles, anyway."

"You can't go back with them, Sherlock."

Sherlock swallowed, his hands tightening around John bundled in blankets, knowing what he was thinking. This past day, what with dinner and aggravating his father; attacking him after he'd shot Dog, visiting at the police station with his bitter message..

 

_I'll be his new toy. For God knows how long._

"I won't let you." John finished, resting his cheek on Sherlock's shoulder.

"If I stay with you, Mother and Mycroft bear the burden instead. My brother isn't as strong as he looks, John."

John gave a heavy sigh, shaking his head in anguish.  
"This is bloody stupid! None of you should have to go through this! What, just because he's some hot shot in the police force? Because he's got a good name-"

"John."  
Sherlock's voice was tired, and he shook his head just once. John closed his eyes with a sigh, letting himself fall defeated against his friend's chest, thankfully no longer bleeding or seeming to be in much pain. 

"I don't want to talk about my father anymore."  
 _He's already stolen a rather large proportion of our valuable time together._

Beneath the blankets, John's hand came to rest softly upon Sherlock's thigh, and the pair met eyes rather slowly, before their lips were pressed rather firmly together, Sherlock's fingers resting on John's jaw as they kissed. Within what felt like just a few minutes, the first aid kit had been raided, more of John's mother's lubricant packets torn open and the kisses had taken on a rather needing edge, punctuated with gasps and the occasional desperate utterance of the other's name. 

 

The boys were no longer cold, warm hands pressed against bare skin and mouths slick together as their bodies found the same sweet pattern as it had only a day or so before - though Sherlock made sure to support his weight on his elbows, rather too frightened to apply any pressure to John's wounded side. His careful restraint was soon abandoned as John pulled him down, his friend's name slipping from his lips as he rocked against him, blankets tossed aside in disarray. Their  pace quickened in the light of the rising sun, casting an amber glow on the woodwork and a glistening sheen on Sherlock's bare skin, soon joined by the wet slide of John's own release as they reached a crescendo together. With a groan and a tremble in his legs, Sherlock too was spilling over, awash with bliss as he forced his leaden body from John's injured form, falling down heavily beside him with a breathless gasp.

One look at John was all it took, and they were both chuckling, giggling like schoolboys as they caught their breath. John fumbled for the antiseptic wipes from the first aid kit, and they were cleaning each other up in the light of the rising sun, all trembling fingers and skittering hearts.

Sherlock savoured the moment; his curls sticking to his forehead as his eyes settled on the orange hue of the window.

"I - I wasn't sure I'd see another sunrise with you, John."  
He said quietly, the past day's events flashing through his mind with a terrible anguish. Dog, laying bloodied in the forest, and then again on the table at the vets. Trapped in the cage and facing execution, pawing at Sherlock's fingers through the metal with sad brown eyes.

 

A warm arm slipped around Sherlock's waist and pulled him back down into the blanket pile, and John was hugging him close, resting his chin on his shoulder.

"Well, you are. You have. I'm here, now. And I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile, despite the uncertainty of it all still clouding his post-coital mind. 

"I love you." John added quite simply, before pressing a kiss to the skin of his shoulder.

"And I love you." Sherlock replied, closing his eyes and resting his head back on John's arm.  "Four legs, fur and all."

His tone was quietly confident, if sleepily amused. John chuckled and hugged him closer, the amber light shining in strips across them as they lay.

 

\--

 

Four hours later, and John awoke first. Gingerly extricating himself from Sherlock, he stood up and stretched, feeling the slight lance of an ache run through his side. When he returned from the bathroom, Sherlock was up and dressed, standing at the window once more.  
"Good morning." John greeted as he began to put on his own clothes, realising that he'd left his brown jacket on the beach last night. Well. All of his clothes, really. But then, he hadn't been to know that they wouldn't be returning for them. They had Sherlock's father to thank for that.

 

"We have to go back there." Sherlock replied rather quietly, his voice saturated with an uneasy resignation.

John tugged on a t shirt over his trousers, pausing with one  sock on as his friend spoke. He raised his eyebrows and Sherlock turned to meet his gaze, his lips pursed into a sorry frown.   
"I have a text message from my mother. Mycroft needs some things; clothes, his toothbrush. Pyjamas of his own."

John nodded.  
"Alright. Well, I'll come with you."

"I said 'we'."

Sherlock's voice was almost apologetic, as if he shouldn't have included John in the plan at all, and John finished pulling his shoes on and walked over, slipping his arms around his friend's waist.  
"It's fine, Sherlock. I wouldn't let you go alone anyway. But he won't be there."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

John froze, swallowing as his eyes swivelled to the chalet, visible through the window.  
"What?"

"The station can only keep people overnight unless they can charge them. Mother's text says that Mycroft is still sedated. Without his say so - which I doubt anyway, given my mother's stance on things - they'd have to release my father."

"..So what you're saying is, we're walking into the snake pit. Basically."

Sherlock didn't answer, and John hugged him closer, pursing his lips rather worriedly.

They remained like that for a few minutes, John's hold rather tight as they both stared out morosely at the beach and Sherlock's family's chalet until Sherlock finally spoke, quiet but somewhat determined.

  
"Shall we?" 

 

\--

 

 

The short walk across the sand seemed endless, and yet was over much too quickly as Sherlock held onto John's hand with an iron vice grip, his other hand curled tightly into a nervous fist. Rounding the front of the small building, the front door was unlocked, and with one long look at John,  he opened it,  both stepping inside with a determined sort of resignation.

 

It was eerily quiet, and for once, inexplicably tidy; nothing was broken or stained from his father's impulsive actions. Everything was neat and orderly, and yet Sherlock barely registered any of it. His attention was drawn to the man sitting at the table, the man that called himself his father. His shirt sleeves shucked up to his elbows and a half empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the table, he swilled some around in a glass as he spoke, his words a gruff drawl.

"Ah. Shhhher _lock_. Sherlock and his  _little friend_."

 

Just his voice was enough to ignite a familiar fear in Sherlock's stomach; he was just slurring the edges of his words, his voice dangerously soft and hiding the true extent of his fury. His sleeves signalled his readiness for action, and at his recognition, Sherlock's hand tightened on John's.

"He has a name. And we're just here to pick up clothes for Mycroft."

"A name. A name - Oh yes. John, wasn't it?"  
His father stood up from the table, the action smoother than Sherlock would have expected. He continued swilling the whiskey in his glass before smiling rather sweetly, every nerve in Sherlock's body on edge as he waited, poised for the man to make his attack. 

"Yes." John said from beside him, and Sherlock swallowed, squeezing his friend's hand at the sound of his voice. "It's John."

"Funny.. funny, you see, because-" Sherlock's father was smiling, a grotesquely false smile that spread over his lips as he began to pace. "When I got out of the cells this morning, Sherlock, I was informed that the dog - the mutt that tried to kill me, no less - was seemingly set free, in the middle of the night."

Sherlock merely blinked, keeping his cool gaze even with his father's. The man continued.

"And of course, what do I remember? That my darling boy popped in to report back to his father about his son's condition at the hospital, only.. minutes, it must have been, before the blasted thing was due to be put down."

"I don't know what you're-" Sherlock began, but his father cut him off with a sharp sound from his throat, and a glance from cold eyes that had Sherlock shrinking back just slightly. John's hand on his own tightened, nearly cutting off the bloodstream.

 

"I told myself, it couldn't be - why on Earth would Sherlock do such a thing? I knew you were mooning over the bloody thing in the forest, but I thought it was to get back at me. And then - do you know what?"  He gave one harsh laugh, and downed the rest of the whiskey in the glass in one swallow.  
"The woman at the desk told me that 'Oh no, it wasn't just Sherlock' - that there was another boy. Blonde. Short."

He sneered, leaning forwards.  
" _John_."

There was a moment of horrified pause, in which John looked to Sherlock, making a split second decision before replying.  
"Yeah. Yeah, it was me. I.. I let the dog go."

The glass had left Sherlock's father's hand in a matter of milliseconds, and smashed into pieces on the wall behind John's head.

"I knew it!" He roared, and Sherlock was pushing John back, pushing him behind his own body against his friend's will.  "I knew my son would never disrespect me like that. I knew he must have one ounce of decency left in his undignified little-"

"You stop, _ri_ _ght now_ father." Sherlock's voice cut through his father's booming slurs, and he stood forwards, a venomous expression on his face as he faced the man that had tried his damnedest to ruin his life. "John set the dog free because I told him to. Because it was cruel, and you're a liar and a terrible, awful person."

He knew that he should have stopped, but he continued, his mouth running away with him.  
"You think I  _respect_ you? You think _you_  have decency? You have nothing! You're a coward. A cruel-"

The hand shot out before Sherlock was expecting it in his father's addled state, catching him off guard as he was struck across the cheek. It wasn't the worst hit he'd sustained, not by far, but the sharp slap echoed in the silence, Sherlock's skin burning as his head snapped to one side.

 

John lurched forward in response, but Sherlock turned, snatching at his arms.  
"No - John - no, please. It isn't worth it-"  
"Sherlock, let me go-"  
"John." Sherlock stared him down, eyes pleading. "Please."

Turning back around, his father had disappeared into the other room, though his booming voice came back to them after a few moments.

 

"I doubt I need to tell you, Sherlock, how much this little affair disgusts me-"

The voice from the next room was muffled, and Sherlock and John were looking at each other, seemingly deciding whether or not to just make a run for the door.

"- but strangely enough, I think you suit each other. The vagrant and the prodigal son-"

'Go?' John mouthed the words, and Sherlock nodded slowly. They each began to edge backwards, towards the door. Mycroft would just have to settle with the hospital brand pyjamas.

"- just unfortunate, I suppose, John, that you chose my family on which to settle your unnatural passions."

Sherlock's father stepped back out of the bedroom on the words 'unnatural passions', and John turned back incredulously - though the expression morphed into one of horror as his eyes fell upon the hunting rifle that Sherlock's father now held. Sherlock inhaled audibly, extending a hand in front of John and taking a step forwards. His heart pounding in his chest, his voice was a frightened breath.

"Father.."

"It was quite amusing, really. Dave agreed to bring me back here to change before he took me to the station - well, I didn't want to be locked up all night in my hunting gear, did I? It took seconds. Slipped the gun under the bed, changed my jacket and Bob's your uncle."  
Sherlock's father looked fondly over the gun as he spoke, lowering it to point directly at Sherlock's chest.

"You know, boy, I should really take out the pair of you. John, for his corruption and you, Sherlock for your insolence."

 

"Father, you don't have to do this-" Sherlock reasoned, trembling hands held out in front of him. "You've been let out.. When Mycroft is well, we can go home. Just the four of us. John will never see me again. Nor I, him."

The thought put a terrible ache through Sherlock's stomach, but he persevered, taking another step towards his father. As a warning, the man cocked the bullet chamber and Sherlock froze.

"You've made a mockery of me, boy."

The words were smooth, lilted lazily and Sherlock felt so wrong about this, so very wrong. He was so confident, even in the midst of his drinking binge.  _It was as if.. Of course. If he planted the gun..._

_It's planned._

"I'm sorry, father. I never meant-"

"Don't lie to me. You stupid,  _ignorant_  boy."

_If we're going to die anyway. What have I got to lose?_

_I'm sorry, John._

 

"Very well." Sherlock dropped his bargaining tone, the plea slipping out of his voice as he straightened his back, crossing his hands behind it and baring his chest to the rifle. "I hate you. I hate you and you know it well."

His father laughed, just once, his eyes hardening as his fingers tightened on the gun.  
"Is that all you've got, boy?"

"You beat your wife and your sons because they're weaker than you. You prey on the weak in your personal life, as you do in your professional life, and again your social life. You cannot bear to be anywhere but in control, but you must see that to those in the shadow of your cowardly domineering, you appear only.. sad. Desperate. Pitiable."

Sherlock was speaking quickly, fingers flexing behind his back and chin raised just slightly. Behind him, he thought he could almost hear John's silent screams, the plea for him to stop whatever he was doing and  _for God's sake, don't get yourself killed!_

When Sherlock's father spoke again, his face was beetroot red, and his words came whispered through gritted teeth. Menacing and soft, the quiet made them only more terrifying.

  
"When I've put a bullet through you both, Sherlock, I'm going to put the gun in your boyfriend's dead hands. Put his prints all over this place."

Sherlock swallowed, and he saw his father's tight grin grow in response to the nervous impulse.

 

"Maybe they'll call it 'crime of passion'. Yeah? If you're lucky."

"You won't lay a finger on John." Sherlock swore, his own voice low and confident, though his hands were shaking. 

 

"Won't I?" His father answered with a drawl, and in a second he'd turned the gun on John.

 

At that moment, Sherlock's phone began to ring in his pocket, a trilling, cheerful ringtone that was rather at odds with the whole, terrible situation. A roaring in his ears and the hammering in his chest, Sherlock's eyes were fixed anxiously on John, who stared at the barrel of the rifle as if greeting an old enemy.

"Answer. It." His father spat after a few seconds, giving Sherlock a sideways kick for good measure.

 

Fingers shaking, Sherlock flipped open the phone.

 

"Sherlock?"  
"Mother."

 

"Put it on speakerphone." His father hissed, giving Sherlock another kick, and cocking the bullet chamber at John. Sherlock did so, locking eyes with John in the process and trying to communicate some hidden message. 'Run', perhaps. 'I'm sorry', most definitely.

 

"My- Mycroft's awake. We've been having a talk. We're.. we're going to press charges against your father. It can't go on any longer. Not with you two, not any more. Not with.. this."

Sherlock's eyes swivelled to find his father, a vein beginning to bulge in the man's forehead as the realisation dawned on his face, a terrible grimace settling in place as his eyes darted about, trying to think of some way out.

 

_He'll go for the phone. He'll threaten to kill them if they do._

 

The second it ran through his mind, Sherlock lunged to the left and his father missed, the gun clattering as it connected with the wall.   
"Give it to me, boy!" The man roared, and Sherlock was crawling across the carpet, his mother screaming on the phone, demanding to know what was going on. Sherlock only hoped that John had run.

"He's - got a gun, mother. Your - second son - is about - to become -"

Turning onto his back, Sherlock huffed the last word - "- _worms._ " before rolling to one side as his father dove to the carpet. He threw the phone over the man's head, John catching it and stamping it underfoot.

Running back over, he dragged Sherlock to his feet and began shouting at Sherlock's father, fists clenched.

"They have you, don't you see? They're reporting you, for this - for everything you've done. And that, on the phone. She heard that too! If you kill us now, there's no way out."

John laughed, a giddy, desperate laugh that rocked through the silence. Sherlock held his hand again, and his father was getting to his feet, the gun still held aloft. Sherlock spoke, picking up where John left off, though his own voice was harder, shaking with determination.

"You're going down.. for a long - a long time, father. No good name can get you out of this now."

"Liar." John added, and Sherlock couldn't resist.

"Coward."

It only took a split second. Sherlock's father raised his gun, and John's hand tightened around Sherlock's. Both boys closed their eyes awaiting the impact of the bullet.

 

The shot sounded.

 

Impact never came.

 

 

At the heavy sequence of thuds, John and Sherlock opened their eyes. Taken aback, they both remained motionless, their hands entwined as they took in the image of Sherlock's father, lying sprawled on his back. The bullet had blown a hole through his chin, and crimson stained the carpet above his head.

 

"He killed himself." Sherlock whispered, simply, a hoarse recognition in the shocked silence.

 

\--


	15. Aftermath

It was a few moments later that either of them finally moved, Sherlock taking a few tentative steps towards the body. He seemed to freeze once more, and John took over, bending down beside Sherlock's father's face and grimacing slightly as he checked the pulse.  
  
Of course, there wasn't one.  
"Yeah," John said quietly, looking up at Sherlock who stared back at him in a kind of  hesitant terror. "He's gone."  
  
All at once, the other boy let out a small sound of despair, clapping both hands to the sides of his head and turning away. Hopping to his feet, John recognised the shock on Sherlock's face and grasped both of his wrists, shushing and soothing.  
  
"He's dead. John, he's dead. Father's dead. My father-"  
"Sherlock. Sherlock, I know. Please-"  
"My father-"  
"We'll get this sorted out. Please, it's.. it's alright.."  
  
His friend seemed to half collapse in John's arms, trembling violently and John himself was shaken as he half-dragged Sherlock to the door. Opening it wide, they were both confronted by the police car and it's screaming siren as it squealed to a stop before the chalet, kicking up sand. Of course, John thought, Sherlock's mother would have called the police immediately after _that_ phonecall.

 

John recognised the man in front as the 'Dave' from the station - the one that had agreed to have John-the-dog put down. The thought was a sick reminder.

"Get back!" Came the gruff, authoritative voice of the police chief, throwing himself out of the front seat of the car with his gun aloft. "Put your hands in the air, and come out slowly! We had a call about an armed altercation-"

 

"It's not us!" John pleaded, arms still around Sherlock's shaking shoulders as his friend threatened to dissolve into reeling shock, "Please - I can't - he'll fall.."

"Where's the gun?" came the gruff shout in reply, and the other officer was edging inside, gun still pointed at the pair.

"Inside. It's inside-"

"He killed himself." Sherlock offered bitterly, lifting his head from John's chest long enough to hoarsely yell the words at the police chief before he added in a shaking whisper. "He knew he had everything to lose."  


 

"Dave.." came the hesitant call from the officer that had slipped inside the chalet, and the chief was nodding at the boys, pacing up the steps and into the chalet.

 

Watching from behind, John swallowed as the chief lowered his gun, bringing up a hand to scratch at his head in obvious discomfort. "Christ." The man muttered, and said something else to his subordinate, before turning back to the boys.

"You two stay there. We need to determine how things went down here."

"You're too late." Sherlock spat back, allowing John to lead him to the plastic chairs on the chalet veranda, "Don't you see? You're useless! All of you - where were you when he.. when I..-"

  
He was shaking again and John frowned, pulling him close once more as his sentence tailed off into nothingness.

\--

 

  
Twenty minutes later and Sherlock and John were still sitting in the same place. Sherlock had calmed down considerably, and now wore a throw blanket over his shoulders, whilst John had managed to track down his brown jacket - albeit covered in sand -  a few metres away. They'd relayed their story to the police chief and his colleague twice, the second time recorded on tape. 

 

Sherlock had been rather pleased to note the shock and distress on the chief's face; his quiet utterance of "You think you know a guy.." betraying his disgust at the Holmes' family abuse. He'd decided that this satisfaction would be short lived. With his father's death, the abuse would be hushed up and his mother a respected widow. There would be no need to drag his father's name through the mud, much to Sherlock's regret.

 

Hugging the blanket closer, Sherlock took John's hand as they sat, the other boy's warm and near clammy in his grasp.  
"Thank you." He whispered. "For being here."

John had merely smiled, though his reply was drowned out by Sherlock's mother's scream. Only minutes earlier, she had arrived at the scene, her eyes wide and panicked before she hysterically tore her way through the police tape to be greeted by the sight of Sherlock's father being heaved limply onto a stretcher. 

 

Escorted back out by the policemen, the woman looked about to collapse - sobbing and clinging onto the police chief. The body soon followed, covered by a white sheet and carried by two paramedics.

"I don't know what she's crying about." Sherlock muttered bitterly, and John frowned at him, though his tone was gentle.  
"Sherlock. He was still your dad."  
"Hardly."  
"Must have had some good times. Just once?"  
The other boy fell silent for a few moments as if thinking, and when he spoke again, his quiet words melted John's heart.  
"Yes. Will you come with me?"  
"To the funeral?"

John received a curt nod, and squeezed Sherlock's hand in return.   
"Of course I will. If you want me to."

 

A quiet calm fell between them, broken only by the crash of the waves closer to the shore and the muffled sobs of Sherlock's mother, now sitting with the paramedics and wearing a shock blanket.

After a few minutes, the second police officer made his way over, his cap between his hands.  
"We're going to put your mother into one of the empty chalets for a while," He explained kindly, seemingly indifferent to Sherlock's cool gaze. He spoke to John instead. "For a lie down. She won't go to hospital."  
John nodded, and the officer walked back to where the paramedics were sitting with Sherlock's mother, the pair watching idly.

  
"Come on." Sherlock said eventually, getting to his feet and discarding his own blanket hurriedly. He kept a hold on John's hand, and John followed expectantly, letting himself be tugged along the sand. "Let's go and see Mycroft. He shouldn't be alone."

 

\--

 

Mycroft had been moved to a private room, and as far as Sherlock could tell it was definitely an improvement. Light filtered in from the slatted blinds and fresh flowers thrived in a vase on his bedside. His brother wasn't connected to as many machines today, which was evidently a good sign, though Sherlock couldn't help feeling a vague sense of dread as he and John approached his bedside.

 

Mycroft was awake, but weak and drowsy, his eyes closing every few seconds. He smiled at Sherlock and John as they entered the room, but Sherlock's tone was morose, unwilling to give his brother unnecessary hope.  
"Brother.."

"He's dead, isn't he?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, rather surprised. John squeezed his hand with a whisper of "I'll wait outside" and slipped back into the hall. Mycroft watched pointedly from where he lay, fingers curled loosely around the rung of the bed bar as if readying to sit up.

"How do you know?"

 

"Mother called you from my bedside. It wasn't too difficult to ascertain what was going on, even when she dashed from the room."

Sherlock paused for a moment, before nodding once. He lowered himself into the chair beside his brother's bed.  
"Yes. He's dead. He shot himself after the phonecall."

"In the temple?"  
"Beneath the chin."  
"Ah."

 

There was a beat of silence, punctuated by the bleeping of Mycroft's machine. His brother gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling, before lifting his head to speak again.

"Well, I suppose there won't be the need to press charges, then."  
"And father dies with the dignity that he needn't be afforded."

Mycroft sighed, his eyes fluttering closed. He sounded very tired when he spoke, and Sherlock pursed his lips rather worriedly.  
"It's better this way, Sherlock. Mother can keep her good name. And the house, come to that. The cars and the horses. A rather morbid blessing in disguise."  
Sherlock was silent, and his brother continued rather wryly.  
"What would you rather? Father imprisoned, and living in perpetual fear of his return? Mother disgraced in the eyes of our community? This is, unfortunately, the best thing that could have happened."

A few moments of silence fell between them, and if Mycroft hadn't been tapping the fingers on one hand, Sherlock might have thought his brother was asleep.   
"How do you feel?" He asked eventually.  
"Well. Better than father."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and his brother continued.  
"The puncture has healed itself, which is what the doctors were hoping for. I suppose it's just a matter of days now. Getting my strength back, they say. We saw the Doctors just before mother phoned you.."

Mycroft opened his eyes, his expression rather haunted for a moment.

"You did have us rather worried, you know. Mother was swearing blind that if he touched you-"

"Mother was?" Sherlock interrupted, brow crinkling in surprised bemusement. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Sherlock.  She does care for you, you know. And you have always been the 'baby', so to speak."

 

Sherlock frowned, feeling rather guilty about his treatment of his mother - firstly being unable to accept why she might not press charges and secondly being near scathing about her upset at the 'crime scene'.

"How is she?" Mycroft asked quietly, concern etched onto his tired features.

"Sleeping, I think. She screamed."

"To be expected, really."

"I suppose it may take time."

"I should be out in a day or so, hopefully. You and I should plan the funeral. Save mother the job."

Mycroft fiddled idly with the tubing of his I.V, and the monotonous beeping began to fill the comfortable silence. Sherlock was lost in his thoughts, wondering what John was doing while he sat here. Mycroft seemed to follow the direction of his thinking.

"And John?" He drawled, a smile in his words. "You and he are.. fine, I take it?"  
"Unscathed."  
Sherlock couldn't help the small smile on his lips and Mycroft seemed to mirror it, adding a rather pleased "I see."

Standing, Sherlock began to make his way to the door before pausing as he remembered what he'd meant to ask before this terrible business had occurred.  
"Why did you protect the dog, Mycroft? The Golden Retriever?"

"Ah, yes." Mycroft laid back, pursing his lips. "Rather impulsive really, wasn't it?"  
Sherlock folded his arms lightly across his chest, waiting for an answer. Mycroft sighed.

"I'd seen you sitting with it on the beach. Playing with it, talking to the damned thing. I couldn't bear the thought of you finding it after father was done. Strangely, he never was one to listen to protests.."

Sherlock nodded, rather touched and decidedly not admitting to the feeling.  
"Well, he escaped the grasp of the police station. And certain death, again."

Turning back to the door, Sherlock paused.  
"Thank you, Mycroft."

 

The words slipped quickly from his lips, and he'd left the room before he could see the pleased smile settle on his brother's face, eyes closed as he fell back into an easy sleep.

\--

 

As Sherlock reached the ground floor of the hospital and walked through the double doors, he was greeted by a Golden Retriever with a pile of clothes in his mouth. Giving a weak chuckle, he bent down to take the clothes, running his hands through John-the-dog's fur in the process.  
"Better?" He asked quietly, "Your wounds?"  
Dog gave one huffed sneeze, before rubbing his body against Sherlock's leg, brown eyes looking up at him worriedly.

 

Sherlock sighed, nodding at the road.  
"Come on. I'll tell you on the way."

The walk back was thankfully short, but they took their time. John-the-dog padded along beside Sherlock, the boys clothes held in Sherlock's hands as they walked back along the main road, the beach visible on the horizon. Sherlock filled John in on Mycroft's condition and what he had said, and went on to talk about his father some more.

What he might have wanted at his funeral, what  his body had looked like on the floor, how scared Sherlock had been - as if John hadn't been there. Still, he knew his friend wouldn't mind. The habit of venting pent-up feelings to Dog had been essential at the start of their friendship, and Sherlock was finding it beyond therapeutic now. Every so often, the Retriever would whimper or whine in sympathy; rub his head at Sherlock's knee or growl quietly. 

 

When they finally reached the 'crime scene' once more, the officers pointed them in the direction of a chalet further down the beach, and upon tentatively opening the door, Sherlock found that he could hear his mother's soft snores from the bedroom.

Hopping up, Dog took the pile of clothes from the boy's hands in his mouth and trotted off to the bathroom, appearing minutes later as John Watson once more, buttoning up the shirt over newly healed wounds.

"How are you feeling?" John asked quietly as he reached Sherlock, running a hand over the other boy's shoulder.  
"Asks the boy checking his bullet wounds."  
"You know what I mean."

Sherlock sighed and nodded, sitting down on the sofa. This chalet was odd; so new and untouched. It still smelled like bleach and had no sign of struggle of unhappiness. Sherlock's family's chalet would be forever tainted. He wondered if the resort would just demolish the blasted thing.  
"Fine, I suppose." He replied eventually, fingers stroking a pattern on the unmarked leather. "Rather empty. It's all.. for nothing, isn't it. He'll never get his just desserts."

John frowned, having considered the same thing. He walked over to the sofa and sat down, turning to Sherlock and cupping his face between his hands.

"You get your freedom." He insisted, "All of you. And your mum gets to keep all the stuff, right? Your house and all of her friends. And you - Sherlock, you don't have to protect them. You can move on and go to Uni."

Sherlock snorted, answering in a muttered huff.  
"I'm sure UoL can wait."  
John drew back slightly, letting his hands fall. His brow crinkled and he tilted his head just slightly, looking rather comically like his canine counterpart for a moment.

"UoL.. You don't mean.. That's never the University of London?"  
"Of course." Sherlock frowned, distracted. "Why?"  
"You? You're going to UoL?"  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
"Well, you.." John chuckled incredulously, "I thought.. Cambridge. Or Oxford."

"Why does it matter?" Sherlock asked rather impatiently, fixing John with an odd stare.

"Because UoL-! That's where my course is. The medicine course - that's - that  _was_  - my University."

 

Sherlock blinked at his friend, both of them looking rather incredulously at each other for a few moments before he spoke.

"You can't be serious."

"I am!"

The wonderment that grew in Sherlock's eyes was both heartening and terrifying to John, and he felt a trickle of dread at his friend's next suggestion.

"We could go.. together."

Sherlock seemed to sense his hesitation and pressed a hand to his cheek, his voice fervent and eyes pleading.  
"John, listen to me. You aren't a danger to anyone. Not to me, not to your family.. If you - if we - stay.. together.. then I can look after you. You and Dog."

John chuckled, wondering if his friend could hear what he was thinking.

_You look after me? How about I look after you. God knows, you need it right now._

 

Indeed, Sherlock seemed to sense the direction of his thoughts from his expression and waved him off with an errant hand.  
"I'm  fine. So.. can we go?"

His excitement was palpable, and John was suddenly considering it -  _studying medicine.. being Sherlock's boyfriend.._  


_Not running any more._

"If.. if the Uni will still have me.." He answered with shaky resolve, and Sherlock squeezed his hands rather tightly in anticipation.

"Nonsense, of course they will. You didn't reject the offer, did you?"  
"No, no.. I just wasn't going to go." John shrugged, and Sherlock smiled rather widely.

"Well, now you are."

John was shaking his head, rather disbelieving of all of this. Sherlock continued gently, a smile on his lips.  
"We can visit your family, too. I'll come with you. We can collect your things. Move into the University accommodation, perhaps. Explain to them. They'll understand, John. If your mother is anything like you are.."

He tailed off, but John rather took it as a compliment.

"Oh my god," He chuckled incredulously, "I can't believe that we just.. that we've just _decided_ -"

Sherlock interrupted his stammering with a kiss, hard and steady. John was momentarily flustered before he responded in kind, fingers twining into Sherlock's shirt fabric as his friend's inquisitive tongue probed his lips.

 

A sound from the bedroom made them spring apart, and both boys were blushing red as Sherlock's mother weakly called for her son.

Still holding John's hand, Sherlock's smile faded only slightly as he headed into the back room, reminded of the days events.

 

\--

 

John stayed hesitantly at the door as Sherlock headed into the bedroom, his mother wearing a tartan blanket over her summery outfit as she lay on the made bed. The other boy sat gingerly on the edge, resting a hand on her ankle as if comforting her the only way he knew how.  
"Sherlock." She greeted weakly, her voice ragged and tired.  
"How do you feel, mother?" Sherlock asked rather redundantly, John resisting the urge to roll his eyes at his friend's tactlessness.

The woman merely smiled sadly, a few silent seconds passing before she answered quietly, placing her hand over her son's.  
"It could be worse. Considering the circumstances, I suppose it's the best possible outcome, isn't it?"

Thinking about Mycroft's words in the hospital and John's further reassurance, Sherlock nodded, pursing his lips.  
"I expect so, yes."

"How's your brother?"

"The doctors say he might be out in a day or so. He's.. sad." His description was rather pathetic, and also inaccurate. Mycroft's indifference to his father's untimely demise had been plainly written on his face, and yet Sherlock didn't particularly think it would hearten his mother to know so. She nodded.

"John, you can come in, dear. None of this is your fault."

John swallowed, walking inside with his hands clasped at his stomach.  
"I'm really sorry for your loss, Mrs. Holmes."

Sherlock's mother sniffed, making a great effort to sit up against the headboard and straighten her hair, even attempting a slight smile.  
"Now, now. I think we all know that there are bigger things that could have been lost today."

"But still, mother, he was your husband." Sherlock reminded quietly, much to John's chagrin. Sherlock's mother put a hand on her son's shoulder, her expression both soft and defiant at the same time as she spoke gently.  
"No, Sherlock. He wasn't. Not any more."

 

A short silence fell, and the woman enveloped her son in a hug that had Sherlock resting his face on her shoulder as if a child. John looked away hesitantly in the doorway, feeling rather awkward. He could tell that this was something Sherlock and his mother - or any member of his family - very rarely did, and was loathe to ruin the moment.

 

"Mycroft and I will sort out the funeral." Sherlock insisted, his voice muffled from his mother's shoulder. "You shan't have to lift a finger."

"Don't be silly," His mother responded, pulling back at long last and smiling rather sadly. "I want to keep busy. Did I hear you talking about University?"

Sherlock looked back at John, and the pair shared a smile, the glee that slowly began to surface between them still drenched in disbelief.  
"Yes - John and I didn't realise; We're both going to the University of London."

 

Sherlock's mother practically beamed at John, and her quiet happiness was infectious.  
"Is that so? In central London? Why.. I'm sure you can use father's old flat.." Her voice began to crack, and Sherlock reached for her hand, the woman squeezing his fingers with an apologetic smile as she dabbed at her eyes. "Sorry - sorry, but yes. The flat - it's - Baker Street, I think."

Sherlock looked tentatively to John, who smiled and nodded with a shrug. Just the thought of being able to go to Uni - to go home, to see his family and get all his old things, and to stay with Sherlock - was overwhelming..

"That would be brilliant. Thank you, mother.  
"Nonsense."

Nodding,  she freed her sons hand and was standing, straightening her skirt and shedding the blanket. With a last wipe of her eyes and a defiant sniff, she began to make for the door, pausing to turn back and explain.

"Alright. I have to speak to David about getting the body interred in London. Sort a few things out, and then get back to Mycroft at the hospital.  
"Mother, you don't have-"  
"Sherlock. I am a Holmes. We get on with things."

With that defiant statement, Sherlock's mother swept out of the room, and John walked over to sit by Sherlock on the bed. Silence fell quickly, and he took his friend's hand, Sherlock's eyes rather worried as they found his own.  
"She'll be okay, Sherlock."  
His friend frowned, but didn't reply.  
"She's strong, like you. All of you. And she's free, now."  
"But if I'm at University-"  
"She doesn't want it any other way. Honestly. She's going to be absolutely great."

After a few moments, Sherlock smiled and kissed John on the cheek gratefully.  
"Come on."  
Both standing up from the bed, John let himself be led outside into the mid afternoon sun, Sherlock's fingers firm around his own. 

 

Sitting down on the sand, both simultaneously tilted their faces back to feel the warmth on their skin as the waves crashed softly only a short space away. Opening his eyes at long last, John was struck by how much things had changed since their first meeting on this very beach.  Dog and boy, as different as night and day - even when they were both human, their backgrounds were as diverse as could be.

 

His eyes on the horizon of the dark, grey sea, Sherlock began to speak, fingers tracing patterns on the back of John's hand.  
"So you'll come back with us - in a day or so - when Mycroft's better. In the car.. And we'll.. we'll figure it out from there. Your family, and everything. I'll help you."

John nodded, feeling heartened by his friend putting the plan into words.

"And I'll go to the funeral with you," He added softly, before kissing the back of Sherlock's hand. "And it'll be fine. And then you don't ever have to think about it again."

Sherlock gave a small smile, and leaned over to rest his head on John's shoulder.

A few moments passed, and they were comfortable in the quiet; the fingers that weren't intertwined were raking slowly through warm sand, and the police tape a few chalets over fluttered peacefully in the breeze, a reminder of the twisted tragedy that had been so close to ending it all.

"I'm glad I met you, John Watson."  
Sherlock murmured, his voice quiet in his confession as he leaned back slightly to look over at his friend. John squeezed his hand in reply, his own gaze settled contentedly on the horizon, blonde hair fluttering lightly in the breeze. Tilting his head just slightly, he was the mirror image of his canine counterpart; both of which Sherlock had accepted so readily into his life. 

 

Sherlock could have laughed, but merely pursed his lips against the grin and added in his most serious voice;  
"But then, I suppose every dog has his day."

 

John looked over at him with a rather skeptically amused expression on his face, incredulous before Sherlock burst out laughing, and then he was tackling him into the sand, both cackling like children.

 

\--

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has stuck with Sherlock and Dog!John throughout this story. Your comments have kept me writing and I can't believe the response this little ditty has had.
> 
> Thanks ever so much loves.
> 
> The End (?)
> 
> Amy


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